


wanna be your romeo

by leetlebird



Series: Lax Bro AU [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: F/F, Getting Together, Lax Bro Dex, Lax Bro Ransom, M/M, Matchmaking, Misunderstandings, Much Ado About Nothing AU, Panic Attacks, Romeo and Juliet AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-22 13:26:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 50,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9609365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leetlebird/pseuds/leetlebird
Summary: Holster's always said 'fuck the lax bros,' but when he meets Ransom, a new transfer student on the lacrosse team, Holster realizes he wants to be a gentleman and date a lax bro first.  (Ransom doesn't think Holster's too bad, either.) As Ransom and Holster navigate their own secret relationship, their teams band together to get Nursey and Dex to stop fighting by any means necessary - even if that means setting them up on a date.(Romeo and Juliet AU + Much Ado about Nothing AU. Dramatic misunderstandings can only be solved with One Direction, secret make-out sessions, snickerdoodles, Jerry's dates, and - finally - some communication.)





	1. Act One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came about through that classic inspiration -- what if Ransom were a lax bro, and how exactly can I turn this into an AU that Shakespeare would be ashamed of? Eventually, I discovered that giving Holsom a straight-forward Romeo and Juliet story kind of sucks, but things turned around when I added a Nurseydex Much Ado about Nothing story. What follows is a strange blend of both stories, which ended up being: 1) frighteningly long, and 2) slightly taken over by my douchey lax bro OCs. Sorry in advance about them -- I tried to make them _endearingly_ douchey, but only you can be the judge of that.
> 
> Also, this story will include very light Lardo/Camilla and March/April, emphasis on light. I didn't tag those relationships because I don't want to scam people into reading this for femslash when it's almost all Holsom, but they're in here somewhere!
> 
> (P.S. The title is from LMNT's hit song "Juliet," aka a staple of my childhood when I listened to Radio Disney every day.)
> 
> This is definitely the longest fic I've ever written, so I hope you enjoy.

**prologue**

  


_November 27, 2014_

Holster knows Thanksgiving is going to be weird this year when four of the freshman players come running into the Haus with their clothes completely soaked. “Lax-holes?” he asks, holding the door open behind them and peering across the street. The assholes in question are carousing on the front lawn of the shitpile they call a house (okay, it’s actually a pretty decent house) and laughing while spraying the street with a garden hose, so that answers his question right there.

“I swear to God, we were just walking down the street not doing anything and they just—“

“If you boys don’t stop dripping on my floor right this second,” Bitty snaps from the doorway, “I’ll put you in the oven next. And stuff you and serve you for Thanksgiving. We are one step away from cannibalism in this Haus. So step back outside, please.”

Holster moves with them, not bothering to explain that Bitty is just slightly unhinged after preparing Thanksgiving dinner all day for an entire men’s hockey team. Sometimes it was a good thing to strike fear into the hearts of the freshmen, and it was so rarely Bitty who got to be the one inflicting that fear. “Totally unprovoked?” he asks, gesturing toward their dripping formalwear. 

“Yeah, totally,” the shrimpiest one, a guy nicknamed Zorro, says in a huff. “All we did was walk by.”

“Which side of the street?” Holster asks. God, he hopes they were walking on the hockey side. That would be a fucking wonderful excuse to strike back; he’s been planning a few more creative attacks.

Zorro stares blankly. “What do you mean, which side?”

Another kid, Ray, answers for him. “We were on their side. But that rule isn’t real, is it?”

Damn. “No, not real at all,” Holster bites back. _Fucking freshmen._ “That’s why they drenched your dumb asses.”

“Huh?”

“It’s real.” _Jesus,_ Holster thinks, _but these freshmen are getting stupider every year._ “We amended the weekday rules five days ago. Don’t you check the groupchat?”

“Uh, yeah,” Zorro mumbles, “But we didn’t think it was _serious_.”

“Well, you can go change your clothes,” Holster says. “You’d better hurry up because if you’re late, Bitty will very literally murder you.” He watches as the four boys shuffle back down the driveway. “And walk on the right goddamn side of the street this time, gentlemen!”

After making sure they steer clear of the lax side of the road, Holster shakes his head and steps back into the Haus. “Good news and bad news,” he says to Shitty, who’s reading the newspaper while sitting cross-legged on the floor. “Freshmen got hosed down by the lax team.”

“Good news is it’s our turn, so we don’t have to worry about them fucking with us for a few days _and_ we get to come up with a kickass response,” Shitty muses. “What’s the bad news?”

“They’ll probably be late to Hausgiving.”

“Bitty save us all,” Shitty murmurs.

In the end the freshmen make it just in time. They sit elbow to elbow around the table – Bitty, Holster, Jack, Shitty, the newly dry freshmen, Chowder, Nursey, Lardo, and Wicks. The rest of the team is with their families for Thanksgiving, and good thing too, because Bitty has had his hands full cooking for twelve, even with Jack and Chowder helping out in the kitchen.

“Now remember,” Bitty says as he stands at the head of the table, clutching the turkey plate, “I don’t ask for much, just that we all behave like civilized members of society for the next twenty minutes and refrain from chewing with our mouths open.”

“And that we take turns saying what we’re thankful for,” Chowder adds in a rush. “You gotta, it’s tradition.”

As Jack gets up to gently take the turkey from Bitty’s hands and set it on the table, Holster looks down and tries not to look too visibly bitter. 

He can feel himself failing as soon as Chowder starts sharing what he’s thankful for. “This year I’m so happy and thankful for my girlfriend, Caitlin Farmer. She’s so beautiful and smart and s’wawesome and I don’t care if you fine me for saying it because I _love_ her.” 

“Aw, Chow, no one’s gonna fine you for that,” Wicks says, and Holster watches as Lardo’s and Nursey’s faces both fall in shared disappointment. “Get it, dude.”

“I’m thankful for alcohol,” Holster says piteously, and immediately regrets it.

“Oh sweet fuck,” Shitty groans, tossing a crouton at Holster’s head. It makes contact, but more because of the size of the target than the accuracy of Shitty’s aim. “This is Thanksgiving, not Complainsgiving.” 

“This is actually Hausgiving,” Holster says primly, as if that clarifies anything. “And I’m fine. Not complaining.”

“So when Chowder says he loves the warm embrace of his girlfriend and you immediately say that you love the warm embrace of alcohol, that’s not even slightly connected to the fact that April’s still ignoring you?” Nursey asks wryly.

Fucking frogs.

“No, _Derek,_ my gratitude for a cold can of beer has nothing to do with—“

Chowder throws an arm around Holster, pulling him in for an awkward side hug. “You’re gonna be fine, dude,” he promises, as if he knows. “She’s just not the one for you, but you’re gonna keep looking and everything is gonna work out perfect. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“Please tell me more about how love works, Chowder,” Holster snaps, because anyone who knows him knows that he turns into an unbearable dick when he’s feeling vulnerable. “You don’t know what this feels like; you think that love is like in a Disney Channel movie or something.”

There are ten stunned faces staring at Holster, all clearly ready to defend Chowder once they get over their shock, but Chowder seems chill. “I guess you’re right, I don’t know what it feels like to be you,” Chowder shrugs in response. “...Since I have a girlfriend and all.”

“Ooooh!” the team hoots collectively, and all is right with the world again. Even though Holster will still have to apologize later for being such an asshole, shit.

Before they can fully recover and continue going down the line to share what they’re thankful for, the front door to the Haus bursts open and a fucking _storm_ of lax bros is in their midst. They’re all dressed like douchebags and smell like Axe. “Eat shit, hockey team!” one with furiously red hair yells, and Holster is momentarily too nonplussed by how lame it is to be addressed as ‘hockey team’ – where’s the creativity? – before he realizes that, fuck, the lacrosse captain is sprinting out the door with their turkey.

“Hey!”

“Everybody _get Chad!”_

Later, Holster can identify this as the moment that truly ruined Thanksgiving. 

The two teams clash on the front lawn of the Haus, Chad holding the beautiful, perfect turkey over his head as Bitty kicks at his shins. Nursey and the ginger asshole are wrestling on the ground, Nursey pulling on the kid’s oversized ears, and a pair of lax bros in matching snapbacks are rolling around in the snow, trying to push Chowder’s face into the snowbank. 

Once Holster sees that yes, Jack is helping Bitty kick Chad’s ass – RIP the Thanksgiving turkey, in fucking pieces on the ground – and Shitty is pulling Chowder out of the dogpile, Holster screams, “Fuck the lax bros!” in excited rage and proceeds to put their alternate captain in a headlock. 

He has no idea how long they fight. But, too soon for his liking, the girls’ soccer team is grabbing him by the hair and pulling him off of his enemy, and he can see similar situations playing out all around him. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?” a girl on the basketball team yells. “It’s Thanksgiving!”

“Hell yeah, it is!” shouts one of the snapback-wearing bros, and kicks Bitty’s turkey like a soccer ball. 

Four minutes later, when the baseball team _and_ wrestling team have waded into the fray and managed to stop the fight for good, Holster has a bloody nose and someone else’s blood on his knuckles. 

“I called campus security,” someone says, and, well. Shit.

It only takes fifteen seconds – and one final middle finger in the air, aimed at the lax team in general – for Holster and the rest of SMH to retreat back into the Haus. Their turkey is gone, the cranberry sauce has spilled, and they eat in silence and clean up while Bitty cries in his room with Jack there to comfort him.

The email, when it comes, is from the Dean of Students. Their coaches are CC’d, and Holster kind of wants to die.

  


**To all members of Samwell University’s Men’s Lacrosse Team and Men’s Hockey Team,**

First, I wish you all a Happy Thanksgiving. Secondly, I extend my condolences to the men’s hockey team as they mourn their lost turkey; the dozens of student athletes with whom I met today all attested to the fact that it looked and smelled delicious.

However, this feud, as we all know, traces back further than just one trampled bird. I have met with nearly every member of each team over the past few months, and we have had long, laborious conversations detailing the throwing of urine-filled balloons, front doors painted shut overnight, opera music played at maximum volume in the wee hours of the morning, and what feels like a thousand other examples of intra-team hazing and inter-team harassment. 

Samwell athletes, today marks the last straw. As I am thankful for your enthusiastic participation in school events and your dedication to your chosen sports, so am I thankful for the great honor of ensuring that all students at Samwell University are treated with civility and respect, and that all of our Wellies live up to the high expectations of our school’s code of conduct, which I am sure that each of you remembers promising to follow when you first joined the Samwell family.

Your conduct today, and over the past few months, has been entirely inappropriate and is not befitting of any Samwell student, let alone a Samwell athlete and representative of our school. You have damaged private property, assaulted fellow students, and diminished each and every student’s ability to feel safe, secure, and welcome on our campus. 

Without exception, each member of the Samwell Men’s Lacrosse Team and Men’s Hockey Team will be required to serve fifteen hours of service to the Samwell University community or the surrounding region. This will serve to pay back the damage you have done to the greater student body. 

Both teams will also be required to attend reconciliation activities, with the purpose of ending the longstanding animosity that has simmered for too long. This will serve to pay back the damage you have done to your fellow athletes, with whom you should be celebrating your shared passions instead of fighting over perceived differences. 

Let me be clear – any team member who refuses to comply with these mandates will be suspended from all athletic events until service has been rendered. Any team members who choose to continue to engage in physical aggression of any kind will be removed from the athletics program, with all athletic scholarships withheld immediately. 

I look forward to your cooperation and am eager to witness the friendship and brotherhood that your two teams will soon share.

A note to the Men’s Hockey Team – another turkey will be delivered to your residence tonight around 8:00. My sincerest wishes that you enjoy your meal.

To the Men’s Lacrosse Team – for your first act of reconciliation with the Men’s Hockey Team, I request that you join them at 8:10 for a light Thanksgiving snack of leftover turkey. Please note that when I say ‘request,’ you should interpret this more as a demand. 

Blessings,  
Scott E. Prince  
Dean of Students, Samwell University  
**Penitus Potes de Fonte Sapientiae**

  


“Oh,” Wicks says calmly, once the whole team has finished reading and is staring at each other in traumatized silence. “This is fucked.”

“There’s no way this turkey’s gonna be as good as yours, Bits,” Shitty says, as if he expects that to be comforting.

Nursey has already tossed his laptop across the room in disgust. “8:00? It’s already 7:45. I don’t have time to process this. Jack, you’re the captain, make this all go away.”

Jack says nothing, just holds Bitty’s hand.

“So, what are we gonna do once the lax-holes are here?” Holster asks sourly. “We’ve got, like, zero prep time. The best I can think of is pinecones on their chairs, but I feel like a Sound of Music reference wouldn’t be a strong enough statement.”

“Drug them and shave their heads while they’re unconscious?” Chowder suggests faintly.

Jack puts his hand up. “We’re not doing anything to them. Except sharing turkey and pretending to like each other.” When the rest of the team starts whispering mutinously, Jack raises his voice. “You saw the Dean’s message. If anyone tries to keep the war going and the lax team rats us out, you’ll be cut from the team. Permanently. And I’m not letting that happen to any of us.”

“It said physical aggression,” Lardo says. “We can always attack them emotionally.”

Wicks has continued to stare at the Dean’s email, one finger lightly tracing the words on the screen as he reads it over. “What’s all this shit about brotherhood and friendship, anyway? Can’t he just tell us to knock it off without all the Kumbaya crap?”

“ _Reconciliation_ ,” Nursey says. “That shit’s intense. Not just a stop to the fighting, but mutual understanding of our shared humanity and shit.” 

Bitty leans into Jack’s side, eyes still sad. “I don’t want them here. I don’t want to reconcile with them, and I don’t want to ever pretend that we can be friends.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Holster says, shutting his laptop with a decisive thud. “Friends with the lax team. Like that’ll ever happen.”

  


**one**

  


_February 6, 2015_

“I feel like it’s been ten million years since we all hung out with the lax team,” Bitty says. “This is going to be great.”

Chowder wraps his arms around Bitty and leans against him, looking almost sad. “I miss them. I miss Marty teaching me card tricks.”

“I miss Ola’s hugs,” Bitty says.

“I miss Chad watching The West Wing with me,” Ollie pitches in from where he’s sprawled out on the couch.

“I miss Puppy’s everything,” Lardo says with a sigh. Holster would have thought she was pining for Peter “Puppy” Coleman if he didn’t know for a fact that she had her eye on someone else who could always be found at La Church.

God, he hates that he knows the lax bros’ douchey nickname for their house now. Holster misses the days when he knew nothing about them other than the fact that they suck major balls. But no, now he’s wasting brain-space on the knowledge that they named their house La Church, as in the best place to find la-cross(e). Christianity jokes – gotta love ‘em.

He could say _I miss the days when we could all agree that the lax team is the devil,_ but that would be kind of a buzzkill, and Holster doesn’t want to accept just yet that he’s actually a natural buzzkill. “Yeah, Ola’s pretty awesome,” he says instead. Olabisi Bolaji is Chad’s girlfriend, and liking her doesn’t feel like treason since she’s not actually a lacrosse player. “But why exactly are we going over there? What’s the point of sleeping on their floor, anyway?”

“Oh, it’ll be fun,” Bitty assures him. “Remember when we hosted them over here before Christmas? I think they want to do the same thing for us, just with Valentine’s Day.”

“Camilla’s trying to bake cookies that will at least be worthy of being mentioned in the same sentence as your Christmas cookies,” Jack notes. “Guess we’ll have to see how she does with that one.”

Holster doesn’t think Camilla’s mediocre frosted sugar cookies are going to be enough to make up for having to bunk up with the lax team in cramped living quarters, but the only other member of the Haus who agrees with him is Shitty, and Holster knows Shitty won’t voice his doubts unless the two of them are alone. “Looking forward to it,” he mutters.

\---- 

“Ransom!” Marty sticks his head into Ransom’s room and grins. “Team meeting in the living room.”

“When?” Ransom asks, unable to return Marty’s grin. He needs to read through the lecture notes he borrowed at least six times before he feels ready to do anything else, and he’s only halfway through his second read-through.

“Now.”

Ransom doesn’t want to argue. He feels too lucky, in a way that could crumble if he so much as blinks – he’s been accepted into Samwell as a transfer student halfway through his junior year, he’s on the lacrosse team even though he missed tryouts, and he’s even been given his own room in the team’s house. 

None of this feels real yet, and he doesn’t want to ruin it with his – whatever it is that makes it impossible to get through the few days before a test without crying at least ten times and vomiting at least twice. 

Yeah, that’s one thing about him the team doesn’t need to know about.

When Ransom joins the rest of La Church in the living room, Puppy gestures for him to sit where he’s been saving Ransom a spot on the couch. “Give Ransom one of the nice ones,” Puppy says to Chad. “He’s new.”

“That means he should get the worst pick,” Conrad complains. He’s lying facedown on the floor, probably drunk even though it’s three in the afternoon. Not really a surprise. 

Chad cracks open his Budweiser and blows on it. No one knows why he does that, but he’s the captain, so it’s chill. “Nah, I talked to Zimmermann this morning and we already worked out a few of the rooming situations. Ransom, Bitty’s living with you this weekend.”

“Cool,” Ransom says. He’s never actually been around when they’ve hung out with the hockey team in the past, so he doesn’t know who Bitty is. 

“Hey, no fair,” Puppy says. “Me and Evan wanted to room with the Bitster.”

“Yeah, that’s a no,” Chad says. “The only other specifics are that Lardo and Zimmermann are paired together wherever they room, and obviously Nursey isn’t staying with Dex.” 

Evan lifts his snapback so he can comb his fingers through his hair. “What the hell? Why’s Lardo gotta be paired off with Zimmermann? They think we’re gonna, like, assault her if she doesn’t have a babysitter?”

Ola, who had draped herself over Chad, pushes off of her boyfriend to hit Evan across the back of his head. “I wouldn’t stay with you without a babysitter.”

“Cool, threeway action,” Conrad mumbles into the carpet. 

Chad drops the TV remote on Conrad’s head, which sounds painful. “Shut the fuck up,” he says calmly. “And don’t barf on the carpet this time.”

“Anyway, Lardo and Jack can stay with me,” Marty offers. “The attic gets really cold this time of year and I need more bodies to warm it up.”

“Creepy, but okay,” Chad says. “So who wants to take Birkholtz off everyone else’s hands?”

Conrad feels so strongly about it that he briefly rolls over. “Not me. Never me. This is why I said the new guy should take the shittiest one.”

“Shut up, Conrad,” Chad says. “I’ll stick Shitty with you, then.”

“ _No._ ”

“We’ll take Holster,” Puppy offers. When Evan makes a groaning sound, Puppy adds, “You can watch your stupid shows with him. He likes reality TV.”

“That leaves Chowder and Nursey, and we’ve already established that Dex can’t cohabitate with Nurse,” Chad says. “So I’ll take him, and Dex, you’re rooming with Chowder.”

“Sweet,” Dex says through a mouthful of Doritos. 

Ransom barely has time to straighten up his room and make it look like it’s inhabited by someone who is, possibly, stable and mentally healthy, before what seems like the whole damn hockey team shows up.

Apparently, though, it’s just the ones who live across the street in the house (which they keep pronouncing a little oddly) – plus one Nursey and minus one Holster.

“Where the fuck is Birkholtz?” Evan asks the Samwell Men’s Hockey team. He’s standing in the doorway of the kitchen eating cereal and not bothering to chew with his mouth closed.

“He’s… off. Doing something,” a cute little blonde guy says. “You know, I actually don’t know where he is. And you can call him Holster, it’s been months.”

“I’m good,” Evan says, and disappears into the kitchen.

“Ignore him,” Marty says. “He’s still salty from when Holster told him he had shitty taste in movies.”

Evan’s voice floats back to them from the kitchen. “I just don’t think it’s fair that he always says we’re douchebags but then _he_ thinks it’s fine to be super rude and never use his manners—“

“Bitty, you’re gonna be staying in Ransom’s room,” Chad cuts in. “I don’t think you’ve met him. Here – Ransom, Bitty; Bitty, Ransom.”

“Okay, cool,” Ransom says. “If you wanna bring your stuff upstairs, then—“

“Oh my god, there are more hockey players running up the driveway,” Puppy yells from the kitchen. “Too many! Sorry, but too many.”

The door bursts open, and three huge guys barrel in, immediately crowding Bitty and the guy Ransom thinks is called Chowder into humongous hugs.

“Ollie – Wicks – oh, wow, Johnson, what are you doing here?” Bitty squeaks out. Once he’s been placed carefully back on the ground, Bitty gestures toward Chowder. “Sweetheart, I think you know who Johnson is, right? He graduated last year. Our old goalie.”

“Oh!” Chowder says. “It’s… wow, it’s so cool to meet you! I can’t believe you used to be the goalie! I don’t know if you’ve been around and seen any of our games, but I’m the goalie now, and it would be so cool if you could watch and tell me if—“

“Dude, chill,” the unfairly attractive guy on Chowder’s other side says, smiling and nudging his elbow into Chowder’s ribs. Ransom hasn’t met him before, either, but he’s lived down the hall from Dex long enough to know just from his use of the word ‘chill’ that this is Nursey, and that it would be a good idea to keep him away from Dex.

“Woah, so what are you guys doing here?” Puppy says, coming out of the kitchen. “Isn’t it just the guys from the Haus who are coming over?”

“Yeah, we’re just here to get in your way for an hour or so,” one of the other huge guys says. Ransom doesn’t know if he’s Ollie or Wicks. “And Johnson – what did you say you’re doing here, Johnson?”

“Working at Jerry’s for the semester. Seemed like a good way to stay close to the action of the main plot, plus the money’s pretty decent. Free coffee, too.”

“Johnson’s always like that,” Jack Zimmermann explains apologetically as he gives Puppy a fistbump in greeting. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay, I won’t,” Puppy says. “Hey! Jack! You and Lardo are living in the attic with Marty. He says it’s really cold up there so he wants to cuddle with you to keep warm.”

“Fuck you, Puppy, you weren’t supposed to tell him that!”

“ _Threeway action,"_ Conrad whispers from behind Ransom.

Bitty turns to Ransom with a slightly overwhelmed expression. “Your room, you said?”

Ransom takes Bitty’s bag, earning a smile. “Yep. Come on.”

Chowder trails behind them, even though no one’s told him where to put his stuff yet. “I just love that we’re doing this,” Chowder says as he follows them up the stairs. “Team sleepovers are the best thing ever, but double team sleepovers are the best thing ever even more. Does double team sleepover sound sexual to you guys, too?”

“Here’s me,” Ransom says, and waits awkwardly as Bitty drops off his stuff. Bitty probably wants to arrange his belongings, make himself at home for the weekend, but he can’t do that with Ransom waiting and they probably should go back down to the rest of the group anyway. “And I think you’re in there with Dex,” Ransom says to Chowder, pointing down the hall.

“Oh, cool,” Chowder says, and tosses his bag into the bedroom without even looking to see where it lands.

Downstairs, the two teams are sharing a bowl of kettle corn and talking – which really means that they’re taking turns yelling over each other and not exactly listening. It seems like no one is in any hurry to unpack or get settled in. 

“I have the perfect idea,” Evan is saying. Puppy already looks excited, because that’s how Puppy always is, especially when Evan is talking, but everyone else looks skeptical. Which is also pretty normal when Evan is talking. “Tonight we stay in for some Thai, then hit the town and go see that shitty-looking Channing Tatum movie.”

“Evan, what the fuck,” Dex says. He’s curled up against the side of the couch with his laptop open, probably still working on his coding shit. He’d look adorable if it weren’t for the semi-permanent grouchy scowl stuck on his face. “No one wants to see a Channing Tatum movie. Let’s just go out for pizza and make the whole restaurant hate us, like always.”

“I’m in for the Tatum,” Nursey offers, and the way he says it is so innocent and light that, if Ransom didn’t know any better, he’d never imagine it’s meant as a barb against Dex. “Plus Mila Kunis is in it. Me-ow.”

Dex’s whole face lights up like he’s just been waiting to rip Nursey a new one, which is kind of sad. “Of course you’re only interested in a movie if the actors are hot. Seems totally legit for an English major. Who cares about the story, right?”

Nursey sits down on the couch next to Dex, apparently ready to argue for the long haul. “I care about the story, but a story’s always better with some eye candy to tell it. And no, I don’t think this movie’s gonna have even a halfway decent story, but sometimes people who don’t have sticks lodged up their asses like doing things for fun. You know about fun, right?”

As Dex snaps in response, Bitty steers Ransom toward the kitchen. “They’re always like this, don’t look so worried,” he advises Ransom. “I wish they’d find a better excuse to talk to each other than fighting all the time, but what can you do? Anyway, it’d be just great if you could grab me a glass of lemonade.”

All of the drinking glasses have been stacked on the very top of the cupboard, mostly (okay, entirely) as a way to piss off Marty, since at 5’5” he’s the shortest guy in La Church and can’t reach the top of the cabinet without help. “Yeah, no problem,” Ransom tells Bitty, trying to tune out the sound of Dex’s angry voice and Nurseys’ lazy laughter. 

Chowder scoots in after them and hops up to grab a drinking glass for himself. “It’s so nice to finally meet you,” he says to Ransom. “I know your name is Justin and your nickname is Ransom and you transferred here from the University of Minnesota. Do you want us to call you Justin or Ransom?”

“Ransom’s good.”

“S’wawesome,” Chowder says, smiling brightly. “How come you transferred so late? I mean, junior year is late, right?”

“Yeah,” Ransom says. “I was majoring in Neuroscience, but after a while it was pretty obvious I didn’t want to do that. Now I think I want to be a pediatrician, and Samwell’s program seems like a better fit. Plus, the U was too big for me. I thought a smaller school would be better.” He doesn’t say what he’s really thinking, which is that he’s already freaking out and wondering if pediatrician was the wrong choice for him too, and that he’d _thought_ a smaller school would be good, but now that he’s here he’s not completely sure about that, either. Or that he was _this_ close to getting into Princeton, and he’s still kind of bitter about that, whatever.

“Well, like they said earlier, I’m Bitty, and that’s Chowder, and I can’t believe we never met until now!” Bitty says. “On another note, do you know your favorite pie?”

Ransom stares, then catches on. “Oh, you’re the guy who bakes. Uh, not really. I’m not picky, and I eat everything, so any flavor would be great. I mean, if you’re ever inclined to share, which you definitely don’t _have_ to do, so…”

“Tomorrow I’m gonna make six or seven pies for you to taste-test, and your job is gonna be to figure out what your favorite is,” Bitty says decisively. “Make sure you save room, because I can tell you now that they’re gonna be delicious.”

Ransom smiles. “Saving room won’t be a problem. Thanks, dude.” He moves to the other side of the kitchen to grab Bitty the glass of lemonade he’d promised.

“This is so fun,” he hears Chowder say. “Where’s Holster, though? He’s not doing the boycott thing, is he?”

“No, hon, that was a joke,” Bitty says, and Ransom notices that Bitty’s being extra quiet, so he takes his time filling up the glass so they can have more time to talk. “He’ll be here later. Things just didn’t go so well today.”

“Oh, with April?” Chowder asks, at a volume that doesn’t match Bitty’s hush.

“Yeah,” Bitty says, giving up and returning to a normal volume. “You got that lemonade, mister?” 

Ransom glances back. “Huh? Oh, yeah.” 

“Our friend Holster’s been into this girl, April, for months now,” Bitty says by way of explanation. “It was pretty obvious she didn’t return his feelings, but he just went for it earlier today and asked her on a real date. He’s not taking it well.”

“She said no, then?” Ransom asks.

Bitty smiles, small and soft. “He knew she would. We all did. But still, he wanted the closure, or something. Anyway, it’s done with now.”

“Oh,” Ransom says. He looks down. He doesn’t know what to say. “That’s too bad. When is he—“

They’re interrupted by a loud crash from the living room. A few seconds later, Dex shouts, “Nursey, for _fuck’s sake_ —“

“Let’s get back out there before they kill each other,” Bitty says with a smile. “I’m glad we finally met, Ransom.”

“Yeah,” Ransom says, and is surprised by how much he means it. “Me, too.”

  


**two**

  


_You’re pathetic,_ Holster tells himself. _Pathetic. And slightly creepy._

It was completely true, but he can’t seem to stop himself from waiting under the huge oak tree on the side of the path where he knows April will be walking as soon as her class gets out.

Sure enough, he soon sees April approaching. She’s looking down, changing the music on her phone, and wearing a dark pink jacket over charcoal gray leggings. Holster isn’t sure why he seems addicted to being looked at like he’s nothing more than a splattering of goose shit on the side of the road, but here he is again, and he’s ready for more.

Once April passes him – probably listening to either Scandinavian indie or early 2000s rap, depending on her mood, and _Jesus_ , why does he know that – Holster bounces on his feet and jogs onto the path, heading in the same direction as she is.

He jogs past her, and the fact that he actually hopes April will call out to him as he passes her really just goes to show how much he’s overestimated her interest in him as a person. Beaten, Holster stumbles like he’s just registered her presence. “April!” he says loudly, feeling like the world’s biggest, saddest dumbass. “Hey, you headed back home?”

April doesn’t bother smiling at him; she mostly looks a mix between confused and annoyed. “Yeah.”

“I was just going for a jog,” Holster says, gesturing down the path pointlessly. “So. Maybe this isn’t a good time, but our conversation today was pretty. Uh.”

“Awful?” April tries.

“Well, I was going to say ‘short.’ I don’t want to bother you any more than I already have, since we’ve been talking for a few months and—“ Holster takes a deep breath and swallows the rest of his nervous speech. He doesn’t need to waste her time. “So since today is the day you’ve, uh, officially rejected me, which was really bound to happen eventually and I respect that, I was wondering if you could tell me why. I’m not trying to change your answer or anything, but I think things will be better if I know why.”

April gives him that look again. The goose shit look. “Better how?”

“Well, better for me,” Holster says, honesty being the best policy and all. “And you can be as brutally honest as you need to be. I just think that if you don’t tell me, it’s gonna be bothering me for a while. So.”

“That’s very flattering,” April says. She kind of looks like she’s considering bolting.

Holster wants to wait her out, but after another fifteen seconds it seems like she’s not going to say anything else. “I’m sorry. I mean, you don’t have to tell me why, that’s your right, but we both know I’ve been into you for months now, and this would – help.” He glances at her. “But I’m probably being an asshole by asking. So maybe that answers my question.”

After another ten seconds or so, April visibly relaxes. Or deflates – it’s hard to tell. “I don’t know if it’s good or bad luck that you asked me today instead of a week ago,” she finally says. “I’m really on a roll with saying this today, I guess.”

Holster isn’t sure where this is going, but he hopes she hasn’t actually been walking around all day telling everyone around her exactly why she doesn’t like him. Although, honestly, he feels so shitty right now that it would barely make his day _worse_.

“So are you going to tell me?” he finally says. 

“I’m a lesbian.”

Holster blinks. “I’m such a fucking jackass.”

“Happens,” April says with a shrug.

It seems like a bad idea to make a big deal out of congratulating her for coming out when he’s the guy who’s been attempting to hit on her for, like, three months now, and he’s not sure if it would really be appropriate to apologize for those three months right now either. So he says something, he honestly doesn’t know what – but probably telling her he’s glad she can tell him that, and it’s awesome that she’s out there living her best life – before jogging away. He wonders if he said sorry.

He wonders if he’s a terrible person for not feeling completely over her now. Now all the pressure’s off, and it’s obvious that the rejection wasn’t personal, but he still has an overwhelming urge to crawl into his bed, inhale a bag of pretzel chips, and binge-watch something trashy.

 _Twenty-four hours,_ he tells himself. _You get twenty-four hours to keep feeling sad about this, and then you’re going to move the fuck on._

But first – pretzel chips.

  


**three**

  
Two hours later, Holster bangs loudly on the front door of La Church. He’d tried the pretzel chips; he’d tried season six of The Bachelor, but he’d felt restless, unsettled. He’ll probably feel better if he can chill with his bros, or if he can make a lax bro angry. As luck would have it, both of these possible solutions are currently residing in the same house.

Conrad pulls the door open, scowling, and God, does Holster want to punch this guy in the throat. Like, fuck the lax bros in a general sense, but fuck this lax bro in particular. “You’re here,” Conrad says, sour as always. “Prayer doesn’t work.”

“That’s because Jesus hates you,” Holster says, and shoulders past Conrad before he can move out of the way. “Anyone alive in here?” he yells into La Church. “Lax team didn’t reveal their secret plan to kill us all yet?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Marty replies. He’s playing with his GameBoy on the couch, which reminds Holster almost violently of being seven years old and obsessed with Pokemon. “That plan isn’t even a secret.”

“That’s cute, Marty,” Holster says, putting as much vitriol as he can into his tone. Normally he saves most of his assholery for Conrad, Chad, Dex, and Evan, leaving Marty and Puppy alone because they’re actually kind of nice, at least for lax bros, but he’s still bitter that the pretzel chips didn’t make him feel better. “Is anyone I actually like around here somewhere?”

Marty rolls his eyes. “Jack, Bitty, and Lards are redecorating the attic for me. Or, Jack is watching while Bitty and Lards redecorate the attic for me. Nursey, Shitty, and Chowder are hanging out in the kitchen doing God knows what. Do you like Puppy still?”

“Huh?” Holster says, already moving to enter the kitchen, following the sound of happy hockey players and – ugh – happy lacrosse players.

“You said you want to know where the people you like are. Do you like Puppy?”

“No,” Holster says, even though they both know it’s a lie. “See you later.”

He stops in the doorway of the kitchen, just surveying the scene. Camilla Collins is pulling a tray of sugar cookies out of the oven while Nursey, Shitty, Chowder, Ola, and a handful of lax bros are decorating another tray of cookies that have already cooled. He’s glad Camilla and Ola are friends, because if Camilla didn’t hang out at La Church so much, it would be significantly more terrible over here.

Still, lax bros or not, the moment is so warm and domestic that Holster can’t help but smile. Nursey is handling the sugar cookies with exaggerated care, and if the broken cookies sitting on a napkin next to Nursey are any indication, that exaggerated care is something he learned through tragedy. Chowder grabs at the scraps of Nursey’s past cookie-failures when he thinks no one’s looking, and Shitty is (loudly) trying to engage Ola in some kind of debate about gender roles.

“No discourse in my kitchen,” Ola says, smacking Shitty’s shoulder.

“It’s not even your kitchen!” Shitty protests, because Ola doesn’t actually live here; she’s just dating Chad.

Holster steps forward, ready to test out his theory that pink-frosted sugar cookies will ease his heartache more effectively than pretzel chips, when he sees someone new in the kitchen and temporarily loses the ability to breathe.

Well, shit, he hopes it’s temporary, because if he actually dies right now, he’ll never get to learn this guy’s name. Or learn what it feels like to kiss his neck, _fuck_.

“Dude, you’re finally here,” someone says, and Holster says something back and sits down next to someone at the table, and he can’t be fucked to pay attention to anything going on around him when he feels like he might pass out after catching a glimpse of this guy’s cheekbones.

Someone – Nursey – gets a hand on Holster’s shoulder. “Dude, you haven’t met Ransom. Well, none of us had, he’s new here, but this is Ransom! Justin… Sorry, dude, what did you say your last name was?”

“Oluransi,” Ransom says, and when he smiles at Holster, Holster feels like he just looked straight into the sun.

He puts his hands on his own kneecaps under the table, steadying himself. “Hey, nice to meet you,” he says. “Holster. I’m Holster.”

“Oh,” Ransom says, and his eyes cloud with compassion, like he knows exactly what kind of day Holster has had. And, knowing Holster’s friends and their love of gossip, he probably does know. “Nice to meet you, bro.” 

Holster doesn’t care if Ransom knows about his shitty morning. Hell, he doesn’t care if Ransom knows his social security number. 

God, Ransom’s eyes. Holster’s overwhelmed by how much he wants Ransom to look at him, how much he wants Ransom’s hands to trace his own fingers. He wants to hold Ransom’s face and make sure he feels special – okay, that’s weird. So weird. And yet Holster can’t stop.

“Can I have a cookie?” Holster blurts out, starting to feel a little scared of his own overly intense crush.

“No cookies until you help with the frosting,” Ola says, shaking her index finger at him.

Holster can do that. Carefully spreading pink frosting across a cookie gives him a chance to recover, to breathe more normally and remind himself that love at first sight only exists if you’re, like, Aladdin. Or Ariel. Or any other Disney character.

He’s not a Disney character. So when Holster looks back up at Ransom thirty seconds later, it’s with the intention of finding a flaw. Any flaw.

And – well. Ransom’s wearing a Ralph Lauren sweater. Which Holster had always figured was the same as advertising that you were a huge douchebag. But the sweater’s emerald green color is so soft against Ransom’s skin, and now all he wants to do is lean Ransom against the wall, frame his face with kisses, and touch that sweater.

Damn. Maybe he is a Disney character. Just in a less family-friendly movie.

Ransom takes a seat across the kitchen table from Holster, propping his elbows on the table and waiting his turn to frost a cookie with the most patient expression on his face. 

Holster takes in the curve of his upper lip, the soft light of his eyes, the sense of genuine kindness that seems to guide all of his body language. _Fuck the lax bros,_ he thinks sadly. _If only._

  


**four**

  
“I’ve been thinking,” Marty says to the group of assembled lax bros, plus Ola and minus Ransom. “And even though Ransom’s been here a month, he’s still not totally comfy and happy. We gotta figure something out and, like, do something really nice for him.”

Conrad throws his empty beer can over the edge of the roof. “Dude. No. _I_ was just thinking, too, and since Ransom’s been here a month, we can officially stop babying him and start hazing the shit out of him.”

They’re sprawled out on the flat section of the roof, watching the day turn to evening. Puppy had distributed that day’s mail, including a care package for Dex and a fancy-looking envelope for Ransom. Dinner was just over – frozen pizza, much to Bitty’s chagrin – and they had retreated to their private hangout spot to decompress from spending so much time with the hockey team. 

“What? No!” Puppy yelps, stricken. “He just needs some love. Love! Let’s set him up. He’s just so stressed all the time, but he’d probably loosen up if he got some sweet lovin’.”

“Gross,” Conrad says. “But I like it. That way you tools can feel like you’re doing him a favor, but we’re also totally hazing him at the same time.”

“Just set him up with March Rosengart,” Ola says with a shrug. “I know for a fact that she’s interested, and they were chatting at a party last week and seemed to get along pretty well.”

“Oh, I know,” Evan drawls. He spits down onto the sidewalk and waits until it lands before he continues. “Everyone knows. Remember, Wellie posted a pic?”

This year, someone at Samwell had created a Twitter account for Wellie, the school’s incredible dancing well of a mascot, and used the account to post a combination of Samwell-related memes and slightly creepy candids of various Samwell students, all submitted by the Samwell student body. “Yeah,” Chad says, not looking up from the foot rub he was giving Ola. “Didn’t the caption say something like, ‘Is that your lacrosse stick or are you just happy to see me?’ And Rans, like, texted March to make sure she wasn’t uncomfortable?”

“Yeah, she loved that,” Ola nods. “Now he’s cute, smart, athletic, _and_ considerate. It’s in the bag, if he’s interested.” 

“Ola, you terrify me,” Marty says. 

“Ola, you’re a _genius_ ,” Evan says. “Are you friends with March? Can you make this happen?”

She shrugs. “We’re not really friends, but please, have you seen Ransom? You couldn’t have given me an easier job.”

“Good. So, that’s taken care of,” Chad says, stretching out and coming a little too close to rolling off the roof. “Now I have a fuckin’ crazy idea. Rager tonight.”

“Dude,” Marty says. “It already is tonight.”

“And yet we’re doing it,” Chad answers calmly. “First ever co-hosted party, lax and hockey bros all together. Who can get the word out fast?”

Puppy glances at Evan. “We’ve got this. How big are you thinking?”

“Bigger than your mom’s tits.”

“Wow, okay. I don’t know how I feel about that.”

Conrad kicks Puppy, which really does almost send him flying off the roof. “Shut up, Coleman. Listen to your captain.” 

Dex, who has been half-napping, half-listening, gestures down toward the sidewalk beneath them. “Get the freshers to help out. They never do shit.”

“Fucking hell, why are they still wearing their lanyards?” Marty groans. “No, don’t tell them. This is too perfect. Hey! Tiny bros!” He jumps off the side of the roof, landing on his feet like it’s nothing and running after the freshmen.

“Parkour,” Evan mumbles. 

“Sick,” Conrad says, sounding disgusted as always. “So whoever the freshmen are friends with and whatever idiots are friends with the fuckboy twins here, that’s who’s coming here tonight. I’m gonna go hide all the valuables.”

“Me and Evan? We don’t look that much like twins,” Puppy says, even though no one’s listening. “His hair’s, like, way darker than mine.”

“Bros,” Chad says. “Let’s go buy some liquor.”

“I’ll track down some hot girls,” Ola says.

“This is why I love you.”

  


**five**

  


“Justin,” Camilla says, “You know I care about you, but I am leaving if you can’t put away your textbook for five minutes.”

His exam is in five days, which means he needs to study for thirty minutes today, one hour tomorrow, two hours Sunday, three hours Monday, and four hours Tuesday. He can take a break, at least today. “Sorry, Cam,” he says. 

“Ew, I’ve told you not to call me that.”

“But I’m Justin now?”

She smiles at him, and he could never be mad at her. “Now that you’re giving me your full attention, you can be Ransom again. Why are you so stressed, angel?”

It should be weird, being so emotionally close and physically cuddly with Camilla. After all, there’s nothing stopping them from hooking up – both are bi, and both are hot as hell, at least in Ransom’s humble opinion. But she was assigned to be his mentor on campus for the first two weeks after he transferred, and while their connection was instantaneous, they’ve always felt more like siblings than friends. 

So it’s no surprise that Camilla can tell he’s stressed, and that she knows it goes beyond the test he’s trying to prepare for. “I don’t know,” Ransom says, and leans back on his bed, propping his head up on the big-ass pillow Camilla gave him. “Settling in. Sometimes it’s hard.”

“What do you mean?” Camilla asks. Like Ransom knew she would, she lies down next to him and rests her head halfway between his shoulder and chest. “All the hockey people moving in?”

“Yeah, that’s a lot to handle,” Ransom says. “Like, why have this weird sleepover for the weekend when there’s still people on each team who don’t want anything to do with each other? Stressful. Plus Ola just texted me, like, six times in a row about this girl she’s trying to set me up with. I don’t know.”

“Hey, that might not be a bad thing,” Camilla says. “What’s her name?”

Ransom glances over. “March Rosengart. Please don’t tell me you’ve already hooked up with her; that would just be weird.”

“No, I don’t know her. Give me a sec.”

“Yes, let’s Facebook stalk her.” Now this is a plan Ransom can get behind. It’s petty as hell, but he loves looking at pictures of their classmates with Camilla and rating them. He and Camilla have developed a somewhat complex rating scale, scoring any individual on the categories of Perceived Attitude, Perceived Intelligence, Facial Design, Sense of Style, and Composite Sexiness. “That was Rosengart.”

“Yeah, I’ve got her. Hold on.” Camilla pushes herself up onto one elbow and lets Ransom look at her phone screen. “You like blondes?”

“I guess. I don’t really have a type, at least I don’t think I do.”

“Hmm. I don’t have a type for men, but I don’t really like blonde women. Just so you know I’m biased.”

“That’s because you don’t want to feel like you’re dating yourself.”

“Thank you, Sigmund. Okay, she gets a 3 for style. I’m sorry, but I’m not a huge fan of any of these outfits.”

Ransom cocks his head to the side. “I kinda like it? She’s, like, retro. I’d give her at least a 6.”

“Perceived Intelligence has gotta be at least an 8. Probably higher, but it’s hard to tell when she barely posts anything but pictures.”

“Yeah. And attitude is probably an 8 or 9, too. I met her, and she’s really nice.”

Camilla shoves her phone closer to his face. “Okay, you’ve been a total gentleman and scored everything but the superficial ones. Spill.”

“Style is superficial,” Ransom protests. “And we usually rate people who we have no intention of dating.”

Camilla squeals. “Ooh, you have intentions with March? Go Ransom!”

“Shut up. You get a zero for attitude.”

“And you get a solid row of tens across the board, so go easy on me. But, really. March. You think this is going to work out?”

Ransom shrugs. He’s starting to feel stressed again. “I dunno. We just talked once, and it was cool, but I didn’t really think about her afterward? But that doesn’t really mean anything. Camilla, I don’t know.” He flops over onto his stomach and groans into his bedspread. 

“Aw, sweetheart, that’s fine.” She pats his head, an oddly comforting mix of empathy and chirping. “Just give her a try. Take her on a date, show her some of that love magic I’ve heard you work in this very room, and see where it goes from there.”

“You have a talent for making things very awkward,” Ransom mumbles. But she has a point. He hasn’t done anything but hook up in his month at Samwell, and while the sex has been admittedly fantastic, it won’t kill him to go on a real date.

Who knows – they might even hit it off.

  


**six**

  


When Holster first thought of sneaking back into the Haus in order to steal some quiet time and maybe, like, gather all the things that reminded him of April so he could throw them out, he’d figured it would be a quick stop that wouldn’t garner much attention.

In hindsight, he should have known that the frogs wouldn’t let him get away with something so forbidden as seeking out privacy. Of course not.

“Holster!” Chowder huffs out, apparently winded from climbing the stairs to the attic. “What’re you doing here?”

“Seriously?” Holster snaps, trying and probably failing to hide the pile of clothing items and CDs that he has deemed too April-affiliated to live. “Did you guys, like, install a tracking device on my body?”

“Yeah, we’re, like, mad obsessed with you,” Nursey smirks. “We got a tracker in one of your molars like in Spy Kids.” He enters the room and blatantly inspects the April pile. “Nah, dawg, we were just leaving La Church when we saw you creepin’ in here. So – this is it? You just wanted to create a little shrine to April?”

“Fuck you. And no, I’m not creating a shrine. And also, why does everybody call it that? Just because some assholes in flip flops want you to call their house La Church doesn’t mean you have to do it. You’re supposed to be my ally, or whatever. What happened to ‘fuck the lax bros’?”

Nursey shrugs and grabs a copy of The Things They Carried off Holster’s bookshelf. “Shouldn’t this go in the shrine? Since you only bought it after April mentioned she liked it? And, anyway, the lax bros are chill. Minus the one asshole, but what can you do.”

“Dude, no, I like that book. This pile is for stuff to be burned, or buried, or donated to the homeless or something.”

Nursey puts the book back and flops onto Holster’s bed. “Kinda trite, but maybe some things are cliches because they work. You should have a threesome, dude. That’s what really works for me.”

Chowder looks like he’s considering giving Holster a hug, but decides against it. “If that doesn’t work, you can always talk to us about it, you know? Plus, I’ve heard that getting active helps get your mind off things, so if you want to you could join the biking club I’m in? It’s just on the weekends and it might help too.”

Because he is trying to practice being kind in case he makes captain next year, Holster refrains from telling Chowder that one, he has no interest in pouring his heart out to a couple of freshmen, and two, he’s already a fucking hockey player, so he doesn’t exactly lack opportunities to get active. “Thanks, bro,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Okay, but for real, if you want to try out my whole threesome idea,” Nursey says, “The lax team is having a party at their place tonight. Should be starting in forty minutes or so. No pressure, but it’ll be an easy opp to score.”

“Yeah,” Chowder says with real enthusiasm. “Maybe you’ll find a Valentine!”

“Like who?” Holster blurts out, not sure what tone of voice he’s even trying for in this moment. “A lax bro?” He’s not thinking about the boy he saw today, the one with the sweet face, warm eyes, and evil Ralph Lauren sweater. He definitely doesn’t remember that this boy’s name is Ransom, and _definitely_ hasn’t been thinking about him at least once every two minutes since they first met. Nope.

Nursey pretends to gag. “Dude, I may have come around on the lax bros as a whole, but let’s not take things too far. There are way better guys for you to hook up with if you’re looking.”

“Yeah, like the rest of Samwell,” Chowder adds. It’s so uncharacteristically mean-spirited that Holster and Nursey chirp him the whole time they go down the stairs, until Chowder’s blushing and making sure they understand that he was just kidding.

And Holster tells himself that he’s not disappointed. This reaction is what he expected, and he knows there’s no point in crushing on a lax bro, and this whole idea is stupid anyway. 

He’s probably just looking forward to seeing Ransom because he seems like a cool dude. Like, in general. 

Everything’s cool.

  


**seven**

  


“Yo, Dex,” Chad shouts across the crowd of people. “Come show us that trick where you tie the cherry stem. With your tongue.”

Everyone who’s paying attention – so, like, nine people – starts cracking up, and Dex flushes just a bit as he joins them. Holster doesn’t really feel bad for him, because he’s a lax bro and a cranky one at that, but he’s glad that the hockey team has never taken hazing more seriously than one night of Hazeapalooza and the ongoing tradition of dibs. In lax territory, the freshmen have to do whatever the seniors tell them, no limits, for the whole year. 

“I’m astounded,” Nursey says as Dex breaks the stem off a cherry and shoves it into his mouth. “And here I thought being a dick was your only talent.”

While Dex’s tongue works to tie the stem, Chad lights up with what can only be a devious plan to humiliate his freshman further. “Speaking of dicks, Dex, can’t you also put on a condom using just your mouth? Do that next. Evan, go grab a banana.”

Dex almost chokes on the cherry stem, and Nursey turns to his own captain. “Jack, can’t you start hazing me, too? Make your first command for me to run far, far away from this conversation.”

“No, this is interesting,” Jack says, squeezing Bitty to his side. “You can stay.”

“I guess if you’re ordering me to,” Nursey says glumly, and continues staring at Dex.

Holster isn’t sure he’d ever be able to look at Dex the same way if he watches Dex use his teeth to put a condom on a banana, so he wanders out of the kitchen and halfheartedly checks out the rest of the party. 

It’s almost ridiculous how many people have been crammed into La Church, especially considering the fact that the party had been planned at the last minute. But everyone loves an excuse to dance, flirt, and drink, and Holster likes to think that the star power of the men’s hockey team had a hand in drawing people in.

He can just see Shitty and Marty grinding on the other side of the room – Marty gets white-girl wasted in, like, four minutes flat at every party – but the combination of shrieking classmates and the obnoxiously loud “I Don’t Fuck With You” screaming from the sound system makes Holster want to flee La Church immediately. 

He really hates this song, too. 

Turning and walking out the front door would be not only too dramatic, but too rude; someone’s bound to notice if he straight up ditches the party, and for all his “fuck the lax bros” talk, he doesn’t want to make this arrangement any shittier for the rest of his team. 

So. He has to stay. Just – hopefully somewhere a little quieter. 

As Holster pushes his way up the stairs, the music gets incrementally quieter, and the song changes, thank fuck. To One Direction’s “Steal My Girl,” which Puppy must have added to the playlist, but Holster can roll with that.

He’s glad he left the main scene of the party, but he does hope that, somewhere, Shitty and Marty are grinding to One Direction.

Even though the second floor of La Church is intended to be off-limits to party guests, Holster only tries opening two different bedroom doors before he determines that one, people are fucking gross, and two, he’s _so_ washing his sheets tonight.

Maybe he’s being naive, but Holster hopes that the attic is safe, and climbs the stairs.

Once he’s reached the door, Holster doesn’t hear any noise from the other side, so it’s probably – but then he can just make out the sound of someone singing along – _”Kisses like cream / Her walk is so mean / And every jaw drop / When she’s in those jeans…”_

When Holster pushes open the door to see Ransom lying on the floor with a textbook open in front of him, swiveling his ass to the music – there’s no question. It’s the best part of his day.

\----

It takes Ransom a few seconds to register the sound of the attic door opening. He’s found a laser-like focus and is almost done with today’s thirty minutes of studying. But someone’s huge feet are in his peripheral vision, and when Ransom startles and looks up, the guy he met that afternoon is smiling at him.

God, his head is humongous. 

And Ransom had been hoping to be left alone up here so he could finish his studying in peace and get back down there to enjoy the party, but he can’t find it within him to be annoyed now. There’s just – something about this guy’s smile. And biceps. And height.

Sue him, he doesn’t share Camilla’s lack of interest in blondes. 

“Hey,” he says, stretching and attempting to get up smoothly. “We met earlier today, right? I’m Ransom.”

“Yeah, I remember,” the blonde guy says, his grin fading for just a moment. Ransom wonders if he’s fucked up by reintroducing himself, but it had just seemed polite. “What are you doing up here? Besides singing One Direction songs, that is.”

Ransom stares at him, completely dumbfounded. “I’m studying? And definitely not singing. I don’t think I even know any One Direction songs. Except the ‘you don’t know you’re beautiful’ one, I guess.” Which is a total lie, he knows, like, twenty One Direction songs, but he was _not_ singing along.

Unless he was. Sometimes Ransom has a tendency to do weird shit while he’s studying, without even realizing he’s doing it. Fuck.

“Huh, must have been some other guy singing One Direction songs in the attic,” the dude says. “My mistake. But are you, like, studying? There’s gotta be a keg down there with your name on it.”

“Yeah, got a test in a few days.” Ransom doesn’t know how to justify himself, not really; he knows he’s basically a huge freak for hiding away in the fucking attic to read his Organic Chemistry textbook during a party on a Friday night. “Just wanted to get that out of the way, I guess. But I’m almost done.” 

The guy sits down on the floor next to where Ransom is standing, which should be weird, but Ransom sinks back down next to him and nothing has ever felt more normal. “Got it,” the guy says. “And I’m Holster, if you don’t remember.”

“Nice to meet you. Again.” Ransom picks up his textbook. “Is it cool if I finish up here, then?” Immediately, he wants to pull the words back. It’s bad enough that this cute guy – Holster – caught him being a tragic loser up here, but it’s a million times worse for Ransom to _keep doing it_ now that Holster’s here.

God, what’s wrong with him? (Other than the fact that his skin will be crawling with anxiety if he doesn’t get his damn thirty minutes taken care of soon.) It’s like his subconscious is trying to sabotage his reputation with each member of the lacrosse team one by one, and then moving on to the hockey team for good measure.

But Holster doesn’t look even slightly bothered. “Sweet. Your party’s fun and all, but it’s kind of giving me a headache, so is it cool if I just lay low in here for a while?”

Ransom tries not to let it show on his face _exactly_ how bowled over he is by this response. “Yeah, dude, that’s fine.”

He stretches back out on his stomach, which is his favorite studying position, and tries to get his focus back. All he needs is four more minutes.

But his attention keeps wandering over to Holster, who’s sitting cross-legged next to him and humming a One Direction song, even though “Uptown Funk” is playing downstairs now. “Oh, is that the song I was singing?” Ransom blurts out.

“Aha! So you admit you were singing!” Holster practically shouts, and Ransom shouldn’t find it endearing that he’s such a huge fucking nerd. Holster’s face is just – when he’s excited, like he is right now, he glows. Ransom half-believes that if he touched Holster’s body right now, he could feel the energy humming under his skin.

“Yeah, I guess,” Ransom says, because here they are talking about One Direction when there are a thousand other things on his mind. “Sometimes when I’m studying I kind of lose any awareness of what I’m doing? But ‘Steal My Girl’ is a great song, don’t laugh at me.”

“Whatever you say, bro.”

Ransom shakes his head, smiling, and tries again to focus on what he’s supposed to be reading. Before he can get through two sentences, Holster leans over and points at an illustration on the corner of the page, a picture of a white man with dark hair pinching his nose like he’s experiencing a migraine. “That’s Chad if he’s invited to a game of Ultimate but he can’t find his Ray Bans.”

“Oh my god, shut up,” Ransom laughs, but somehow he’s able to really focus in and get a whole page and a half read in the comfortable silence that follows.

It’s only when the four minutes are over that Ransom realizes that he’d been resting one of his arms across Holster’s knees while he was reading. He scoots over in a hurry, shutting his textbook and trying not to freak out. “Dude, I’m – you know how I said I lose all awareness of my surroundings when I study? Or, like, awareness of my own actions? Totally didn’t notice I was all up in your space; sorry, man.” 

Holster honest-to-God _blushes_. “That’s fine. I don’t – it’s fine.” 

There’s something about seeing Holster blush that lights something in Ransom’s heart, and he reaches out and lays what he hopes is a comforting hand on Holster’s knee. “Okay. Do you wanna go downst—“

“You keep touching me,” Holster points out.

Ransom’s stomach drops, but he feels frozen and doesn’t move his hand away. “I’m – if you—“

“I like it.” 

_Oh_. Ransom feels his face warm and watches as Holster gently slides his own hand over Ransom’s, and suddenly they’re holding hands.

“How’re you liking Samwell?” Holster asks, and if he’s trying to sound casual, he’s failing miserably. 

“Better every day,” Ransom grins. He feels Holster’s grip on his hand tighten for a moment. “I like you,” he adds, already feeling stupid but not caring in the least. “You’re nice.”

Holster shifts forward, still holding Ransom’s hand as they sit, but now close enough that their knees are touching. “You’re nicer. I swear to God you look like an angel.”

“Bro,” Ransom says. “No one’s ever told me _that_ line before.”

“Not a line,” Holster says, ears turning pink. (And yeah, Ransom could watch that all day.) “You’re just—this feels like a dream. I can’t believe I’m even allowed to hold your hand.” Holster watches him like he’s looking for something, and must like what he finds, because he continues, “Is it cool if, um. Our lips. Do what our hands are doing.”

Ransom hasn’t kissed another boy since he was in high school, and it still sends a twist of fear through his stomach to think about it, Samwell’s reputation be damned. But Holster is… yeah. Special, maybe. “You want our lips to get really sweaty and warm?” he mumbles. Shit, Holster can probably feel his pulse racing in his wrist.

“Can I kiss you?” Holster whispers, almost reverently. 

“You can try,” Ransom whispers back. He doesn’t know why he’s allowing this; alarm bells are going off everywhere, but he closes his eyes and hopes. 

When Holster leans forward, Ransom can feel his breath on his face; now Holster’s holding both of his hands, and now their lips are touching in a careful, gentle press of mouth on mouth, dry and tentative.

Holster pulls back and Ransom’s eyes flutter open. “Is this okay?” Holster whispers, and Ransom can’t help but lean forward for more, like there’s a magnet in his chest.

“Yeah, but come back,” Ransom says in a huff, and then Holster’s laughing and placing his big hands on either side of Ransom’s face and Ransom’s just _overwhelmed_ by how safe he feels, and they’re kissing again.

Holster’s mouth is warm against his own, and Ransom can feel Holster tentatively opening his mouth to deepen the kiss, so he figures _what the hell,_ and slides his tongue into Holster’s mouth.

That was definitely the right decision. In seconds, Holster’s groaning and pulling Ransom closer in a way that feels almost frenzied, and Ransom finds himself sitting on Holster’s lap, legs wrapped around Holster and hands clutching at his hair. 

Time passes, but it feels like it doesn’t; eventually, Ransom makes himself pull away and dislodge himself from Holster’s lap. “So you’re Holster,” he mumbles, scooting around to sit next to Holster again and leaning his head against Holster’s shoulder. 

Holster wraps one arm around Ransom, and it’s almost scary how right this feels. Like everything that ever happened before tonight was just a warm-up for the real thing. Like they’re soulmates.

He can’t say that. “So tell me more about how you’re living here for the weekend,” Ransom says, smiling at the sound of Holster hissing a quick intake of breath. 

“Shit. Yeah. I’m sharing with Evan and Puppy. Are you just down the hall?”

“Yeah,” Ransom says. “Sharing with Bitty.”

Holster grins and takes up Ransom’s hand again. Ransom tries not to read too much into that, but he still feels a tingle of warmth down his arm. “That’s good. I can guarantee that Bitty’s gonna sneak out to cuddle with Jack in the middle of the night.”

“That is good,” Ransom breathes.

“Yeah, because then I can sneak _in_.”

“You didn’t need to clarify.”

Holster swats him lightly, smiling bigger. “Cool. So I’ll see you, then.”

“Yeah.” Ransom grips Holster’s hand tighter, because he has to say this and it’s probably going to suck out all of their collective joy. “Not to be – I’m sorry to be a dick, but could you not mention this to anyone? I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” Holster’s eyes widen. “Are you – does no one know…?”

“No, I mean, my team knows I’m bi, but I’ve never _acted_ on it, at least not for a while, plus they’re trying to set me up with this girl and I don’t want them to be pissed, plus I don’t know if you being a hockey player would be an issue—“

“Hey, that’s fine,” Holster says, and the chaste kiss he presses to Ransom’s temple is sweet enough to kill him. “I don’t know how my team would react either, and I won’t lie, I’m kinda nervous about that too.”

“Cool,” Ransom says, and his heart is racing but he doesn’t know why. “I like you, though. I liked this. Let’s just… see where it goes? And decide from there?”

“I’m in,” Holster says, and Ransom can’t do anything but grin back stupidly and wonder if this is what love feels like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holsom holsom holsom
> 
> Ok sooo yes... Camilla is the Nurse. March is Paris. April is Rosaline. Nursey and Dex are Mercutio/Benedick and Tybalt/Beatrice, respectively. You can probably guess who most of the characters are meant to be, tbh. 
> 
> This will be in 5 chapters, each mixing an act from RJ and from MAAN! I'll update every other day until Valentine's. :)


	2. Act Two

**one**

  


  


_February 7, 2015_

“Chad, you manipulative son of a bitch,” Shitty says, shaking his head and surveying the living room. “Leave it to the captain of the fucking lacrosse team to delegate post-rager cleaning duties to people who were, what was it? Oh yeah, your fucking _guests_.”

“Hey, when you live with us, you are one of us,” Chad says with a smirk. “Here’s a broom.”

“I think you need a mop,” Bitty says, wrinkling his nose. “A broom ain’t getting that mess out.”

“Your new title is Captain Asshole, far as I’m concerned,” Shitty grumbles, but he accepts the broom. “Captain Dickhead.”

Chad shrugs. “Just using my resources, bro. And since you’re the one who brewed up that crazy-sick juice halfway through the night, I think you’re just as responsible for the mess as anyone.”

“Oh, fuck, I forgot about that stuff,” Evan groans. “Probs why I can’t feel my nose right now.”

“Yeah, you forgot about it because you drank half of it yourself,” Chad says. “Now wipe off the counter and stop whining.” 

It was just the four of them in the kitchen, but Chad had promised that a different group would be tasked with de-grossifying the living room once they were finished. 

“Well, it’s more than a bit disgusting in here, but I suppose that’s to be expected after such a crazy night,” Bitty says as he sponges out the sink. “Chad Van Dousen, I’ve got to hand it to you, you and your boys know how to throw a party.”

Chad glances at the entry to the living room and shrugs. “Sure, and we know how to fuck up the house as well. Still, it was fun. Woulda been funner – ‘scuse me, more fun – if Dex and Nursey could take a three second break from tearing out each other’s throats, but it is what it is.”

“Yeah, brah, that gets to be a little much,” Shitty says. “And I know I’m biased, but it seems like it’s more on Dex’s side. What’s his problem with Nursey, anyway?”

“Now be fair, Shitty,” Bitty counters. “Dex is more excitable, that’s for sure, but Nursey sure knows how to push his buttons.”

“Ha, he wishes,” Chad says, grabbing a bra off the table and dropping it into the laundry basket he was carrying.

Bitty exchanges a glance with Shitty. “What do you mean?” 

Chad stares at them. “Really? You don’t see it?” 

Evan’s just wiping the counter – slowly, and cringing like the movement is hurting his head – and apparently Bitty can’t think of anything to say. “You’re gonna have to explain that one,” Shitty finally says.

“Well, you know Dex is gay.”

“ _Ye-es_ ,” Bitty says, everything about him a passive-aggressive warning.

“Relax, Bitsicle, nothing bad. I’m just saying, I know Dex, and I see him hanging out with guys sometimes, but I also see him _hanging out_ with guys sometimes, if you get what I’m saying, and it’s so fucking obvious that he’s into Nursey. I mean, it’s probably just physical, but I swear to God you can see his pupils dilate whenever Nursey walks into the room.”

“Yeah, but I thought that was, like, dilating from anger?” Bitty says. “Are you sure he likes him?”

“I’d bet my life on it,” Chad says. “Or, no, that’s bullshit, but I’d bet Puppy’s collection of Patagonia jackets. Evan, dude, can you go grab the dustpan from the living room? Should be behind the couch.”

Evan groans but obeys. Bitty and Shitty spend ten seconds staring at each other, trying to process this new information, and then Evan stomps back in. “Not there, bro. Where else could it be?”

“Anyone out there?” Chad asks.

“Nah.”

Chad grins. “Dustpan’s under the sink, which you would know if you ever pulled your fucking weight around here. Alright, guys, don’t say anything, but Nursey was _totally_ out there the whole time.”

Bitty gapes at him. “You knew Nursey was there? And you said all that private stuff about Dex anyway?”

“Dude, I said all that _because_ Nursey was out there. This is, like, stage six of freshman hazing. Now Nursey’s gonna give Dex so much shit, and little dude’s head’s gonna explode.”

“Sick,” Evan approves.

“That’s not really that funny,” Bitty mutters.

Chad shrugs, completely unapologetic. “Dude, we don’t question your weird hockey rituals; don’t question our shit either. And don’t worry, this kinda thing happens all the time. It’s cool.”

“Huh,” Bitty says. He glances at Shitty, who seems to be mulling it all over, expression neutral.

“Just don’t tell Nursey it was a joke,” Chad says. “Seriously.”

“They’ve been fighting over nothing for, like, five months now anyway,” Evan says, sounding bored. “Maybe this’ll be good for them.”

“And if it’s not?” Bitty demands.

“Then it’ll be funny for us.”

“Charming.”  


  


**two**

  


  


He’s never been awake before 10 AM the day after a party, but Holster’s standing in front of Ransom’s door at 9:30, contemplating what might happen if he knocks.

Bitty’s voice is drifting upstairs from the kitchen, so really, the coast is clear. If Ransom’s still interested, they’d have plenty of time to steal a few kisses before Bitty comes back. 

They’d have time to do much more than that if Bitty decides to show off his baking skills for the lacrosse team.

Before Holster can talk himself out of it, he knocks on the door, as quietly as he can manage while still trusting that Ransom will hear him.

Ransom opens the door a few seconds later, wearing a faded gray t-shirt and black boxer shorts. He leans against the door shyly, and Holster can see a light flush building under his skin.

If the house weren’t full of lacrosse players, Holster would scream right then and there. 

Instead, he silently points into Ransom’s room, and slips in once Ransom nods. As Ransom shuts the door behind them, Holster glances over to the bed, where a light pop song is coming from what must be Ransom’s laptop. “Bro,” he says, “Are you listening to One Direction? I thought you said you barely knew their songs.”

Ransom’s eyes bug out and he leaps onto the bed and closes his laptop in a hurry. “Oh my god. Um.”

“I listened to them this morning too,” Holster says, and admitting this feels like giving something away. In a really, really wonderful way.

“I—“ Ransom blinks up at him from where he’s still sitting on the bed, and Holster is _really_ going to have to do something about his weird, instinctive desire to smooth out the worry on Ransom’s face every time he looks at him. “I wanted to feel like it was last night again.” Ransom looks back down. “It’s probably a terrible idea to tell you that.”

Holster slides onto the bed next to Ransom and pulls him close, and he feels like every ounce of tension in his body disappears when Ransom automatically curls up against his side. “That’s why I listened too,” Holster whispers, his lips moving against Ransom’s buzzed scalp. “But I heard the song that was playing, and that was _not_ Steal My Girl.”

“It was from the same album, shut up,” Ransom grumbles.

“I missed you, too,” Holster jokes, but it’s not really a joke, and Ransom might know that because he pulls Holster on top of him and kisses him like he’s hungry for it. 

Holster usually has music playing in the background when he hooks up with someone – bodies make noise; even as he and Ransom try to keep it quiet, he can hear the bed creaking as Ransom shifts his weight, and the less sexy sounds of saliva and smacking lips. But the thrill of having this person, this beautiful Justin Oluransi, in his arms, that mouth opening for his tongue, is enough to heat Holster’s veins, and he groans into Ransom’s mouth. Every moment feels stolen, like he’s slipped into someone else’s life and this could be taken away in the blink of an eye.

Ransom gasps and tucks his hands under the bottom of Holster’s shirt, running them up and down Holster’s back. “What is the deal with hockey players?” he slurs, still chasing Holster’s tongue. “You’re all, like, crazy big.”

It’s so tragic, but Holster feels himself go hard instantly, and he knows that Ransom feels it too, where he’s pressed up against the inside of Ransom’s leg. 

The tragedy continues when Ransom doesn’t just pretend not to feel it – or, what would be better, do something about it. Nothing so gracious as that. “Oh my god, _Holster_ ,” he whispers, and it’s ridiculous but Holster’s sure that Ransom looks even happier when he’s chirping Holster than when he’s _making out_ with Holster, fuck, “Are you for real? Just because I said you’re big, like, in general, you’re ready to go?”

“Go away,” Holster grumbles.

“I didn’t even say it in a sexy way.”

“Whatever,” Holster says. He rolls off of Ransom and stares up at the ceiling, willing his erection to fade. “Everything you do is sexy.”

Ransom hits him in the face with a pillow, which – yeah. He deserved that.

“But really,” Ransom says, tracing over Holster’s arms with his fingers, “What is the deal with hockey players being so humongous? Like, lacrosse is a rough sport. But we don’t have that many straight-up beefcakes.”

“It’s ‘cause lacrosse isn’t as awesome of a sport,” Holster explains. “That’s all.”

“Whatever,” Ransom laughs. “I’ve played both, and I might be better at hockey, but at least you play lacrosse outside in the sunshine. Hockey’s too fucking cold.”

“That’s why it’s a team sport. You huddle for warmth.”

“That’s what penguins do,” Ransom says. He leans over and inspects Holster’s crotch with a scientific eye. “Hey, your boner’s pretty much gone.”

“That it is,” Holster says. “But hey, you played hockey? What position?”

“I was a defenseman, believe it or not.” Ransom stretches out his legs and splays them out over Holster. “How ‘bout you?”

Holster feels his heart jump. “Same. Dude, can you imagine if you hadn’t switched to lacrosse? We could be partners. For real.”

“Yeah, but then I’d have to live in that shitty hockey house,” Ransom teases. “I’m sure your team’s nice, but we’ve got a way better house.”

He’s right, but Holster’s not going to admit that. “Whatever. How many Chads are on your team, again?”

Ransom kicks him lightly. “Just three. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“ _Just_ three. Because that’s normal.”

Then Ransom’s phone buzzes on his nightstand, and Holster watches as Ransom unlocks it and smiles. Ransom must feel him looking, because he looks up and smiles again. “My sister. She’s freaking out because she thinks she got an A-minus on a history test earlier today.”

“Freaking out over tests is an Oluransi family tradition, huh?” Holster chirps, but he nuzzles in against Ransom’s shoulder and looks down at his phone. “Do you have any pictures of your family on there?”

Ransom shows him not just his immediate family, but his extended family as well, along with excited narrations of what their personalities are like, what their jobs or majors are, and stories of their most ridiculous antics. 

Holster hangs onto every word, and double-checks his understanding at the end by repeating back each Oluransi family member’s name, with a few key details to verify that he knows which is which. “Is that right?” 

“Yeah. And holy shit,” Ransom says. “You should tell me about your family now. It’s only fair.”

“Didn’t bring my phone with me,” Holster shrugs. “How about next time?”

“Yeah,” Ransom says softly. “Next time.” Then, “I guess this would be a lot easier if you weren’t on the hockey team. You know, for all everyone says about the teams being bros now, it would still be weird.”

Holster grins and bumps their shoulders together. “Or maybe if you weren’t on the lacrosse team. I think that’s the real problem here.” 

“Maybe,” Ransom says. He looks Holster over, his face a mix of fear and resolve. “You know how we said that we’d see where this goes and decide from there?”

“Yeah,” Holster says. He can hear his heartbeat thudding in his ears.

Ransom meets his eyes, and everything about him is just so open and warm and _beautiful_ , Holster could cry. “I want this to be – I want to date you. Or, I want to try that. What are your thoughts on the matter?”

“You foxy nerd,” Holster practically yells in his joy, before Ransom shushes him with a quick hand closed over his mouth. After he’s freed himself, Holster pulls Ransom in for a hug. “My _thoughts_ on the matter? I think it’s a fucking great idea. Do you want to date like normal people? Or do you want to try keeping it a secret for a little longer?”

Ransom looks wary. “I want to hear what you want first.”

The most honest answer Holster could give would be that he wants to be with Ransom every second of every day for the rest of his life, but that might be grounds for a restraining order. So he opts for what might be his fourth (or fifth) most honest answer instead. “I want a chance to get to know you better without the teams making it weird. Is it cool if we keep it secret for, I don’t know, a week? So when we’re ready to tell our teams, we actually have a relationship to tell them about?”

“Ooh, a relationship,” Ransom says. “I just said dating.”

“What?” Holster says, miserable and blushing. “I didn’t mean – shit. It’s whatever, I just meant –“

Ransom ruffles Holster’s hair, because he’s a condescending menace, and plants a closed-mouth kiss on Holster’s cheek, because he is also completely fucking adorable. “A relationship would be nice,” he whispers, and within five seconds they’re making out again. 

“But you have to plan the first date,” Ransom whispers into Holster’s ear while he’s sliding a hand down the back of Holster’s pants, and yeah, Holster is a goner.  


  


**three**

  


  


Jerry’s is always busy in the late mornings, but Saturday is the worst day of all if Holster wants a booth to himself. And it turns out that his luck can only hold out for so long, because every booth is full when Holster arrives.

Even knowing one of the servers doesn’t help. “Johnson, dude,” Holster complains, squeezing into one of the seats at the booth like a chump. “Can’t you just reserve me a permanent table? Not even a booth. Just a little table.” 

“Sorry, bro, but this isn’t Friends,” Johnson says. “It’s pretty unrealistic for you to get a decent seat every time you go to the local cafe.” 

Holster stares at Johnson, feeling like a lightbulb just might be turning on in his head. “Hey. Johnson. You’ve probably seen more romantic movies and rom coms than anyone, me included. What’s your idea of the perfect first date?”

Johnson squints at Holster over the coffee he’s pouring. “Are we in a rom com right now?”

“Um… no?” Holster considers for another moment. “Possibly. If you want to get existential.”

“I’m just asking ‘cause you gathering opinions on the perfect first date is a perfect rom com trope. You need to get at least three different people’s opinions but _not_ the opinion of the person you’re actually dating, mix all their ideas together into a horrific mess, and then act completely surprised when the date doesn’t go well.” 

“I’m not sure I follow, but I’m definitely not going to do that. But I’m going on a date with this guy who I really, really, really, like—“

“Like a Carly Rae Jepsen song?” Johnson asks hopefully.

“Maybe, but so far it’s probably more accurate to say it’s like a One Direction song. Either way, it’s sweet and amazing, so you get the picture. But I’m supposed to plan our first date. And I don’t know what to do, because it technically needs to stay a secret, which makes it way harder.” 

Johnson almost spills the coffee in his excitement. “Secret relationship? I can work with that. Do you want to go have a romantic night on the town? The odds of being spotted by someone you know are pretty low in the city. Especially since this isn’t actually a rom com, as far as we know.”

“Yeah, I know, but I think we’ll want to stick around Samwell. He’s pretty intense about studying, and I don’t know if he’d want to give up a whole night for a first date.”

“Well, I’m sure we can think of something on campus where no one will see you. But is it gonna have to be a secret forever? That could get kind of tricky.”

Holster shakes his head. “Nah, just a week or so. Just to make sure we really like each other before we let other people know.”

“Well, we’ve already established that _you_ like _him_ enough to fill the chorus of a Carly Rae Jepsen song,” Johnson observes. “So this date needs to be kickass enough to make sure he’ll feel the same way. What can you tell me about him?”

Holster hesitates. Johnson’s not really on the team anymore, since he graduated, plus he never really seemed like the type of guy to make a big deal out of petty shit even when he was on the team. “He’s a new student. Junior. The problem, or issue, I guess, is that he’s. Uh. On the lax team.” 

Johnson stares. This time he really does spill some coffee, and while Johnson turns his back to grab a cloth to wipe up the mess, Holster considers just bolting from the restaurant. But it’s too late now, and he has to make sure that, at the very least, Johnson can be trusted to keep his and Ransom’s secret safe. “A lax bro, huh,” Johnson mutters once everything’s back under control. “Let me go take that table’s order.” 

While he’s waiting, Holster tries to figure out how fucked he is, on a scale from 1 to 10. Maybe a 7, or an 8 if he’s really unlucky. By the time Johnson comes back, Holster’s already downed half of his coffee, too stressed to care that it’s burned the roof of his mouth. “Dude,” Holster croaks. “Are you gonna be weird about this?”

“I just thought we were sticking with ‘fuck the lax bros,’” Johnson says. “That’s our stance, always has been. It seems like you’re screwing with the narrative for, like, totally selfish reasons, bro.”

“This isn’t a narrative, it’s my _life_ ,” Holster snaps. “And you don’t need to like it. It’d be great if you, I don’t know, approved, but that wasn’t what I was looking for. Just advice. And I get it if you don’t want to help us out now that you know the real story, but you at least need to swear you won’t tell anyone.” 

“No worries about that, bro. I’m just concerned about this, you know? Like, the reason we all hate the lax bros isn’t just for comedic relief. They’re all assholes. Super one-dimensional characters with no backstory. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

Holster closes his eyes and counts to ten. “Okay. Sure. But he’s not from here. He’s not part of Samwell’s lax bro culture yet. Plus, I thought you knew that we’d called a truce with them. Shit, dude, you showed up at their house yesterday.”

Johnson shrugs. “Sure. But that truce seems pretty temporary, don’t you think?”

Holster glares.

“Fine,” Johnson says. “I’ll help you with one date, and then if I think he’s good enough for you, you guys’ll have my full support. Want a refill?” 

“Nah, I’m good,” Holster says. He’s still feeling sort of pissed off, which is ridiculous, since he should have known that Johnson, a former Samwell hockey player, wouldn’t be on board with this. “So, what do you think I should do for the date?” 

“I’ve got you covered,” Johnson says. “Let me know what night you’re thinking, and I can get you in here past closing. As long as you keep it discreet – like, don’t turn all the lights on or anything – it should be fine. Not saying I’m gonna cook you dinner or anything, though.”

“Huh.” Holster tries to picture it. A romantic evening alone with Ransom in Jerry’s, eating a picnic dinner in one of the booths. Maybe seeing each other by candlelight. It’s already a hundred times cheesier than any date he’s ever been on, but he also kind of loves it? He wants to see what Ransom looks like in the soft glow of a candle, and that doesn’t seem like an unreasonable wish. “I like it. Thanks, Johnson.”

“No problemo,” Johnson shrugs. “Just let me know when you’ve got a day officially picked out. I’ll be there to let you guys in, and I’ll swing by afterward to lock it all up again. Give me a chance to meet this guy, you know.”

“You’ll like him, I swear.”

“Hope so. But forbidden love, dude, that’s not so bad. It’ll be, like, more special because you have to prevail against antagonistic forces, you know?”

Holster drains the rest of his coffee. “Yeah. Sure.”  


  


**four**

  


  


He’s only planning to stop by La Church briefly, checking to see if Ransom is around in the twenty minutes he has before his group study session, but Holster stops in his tracks once he sees the chaos in the kitchen.

“What the fuck?” Holster demands, tapping Lardo on the shoulder. “Why are there, like, thirty people in here?”

She points with an almost alarming level of fervor at a stack of brownies on the table. A stack which is dwindling before Holster’s eyes. “Bitty baked. A new recipe. Heaven has come to earth.”

“Right,” Holster says. It’s hard to be excited about Bitty’s baking skills when they’re being shared with the _lax bros_. And he’s so far away from the table, he probably won’t get a brownie anyway. Ransom is gobbling down a brownie on the other side of the kitchen, surrounded by Jack on one side and Evan on the other. “No one has anything better to do?”

“There’s another batch in the oven,” Lardo says casually.

“Oh.” Holster wedges himself into the kitchen. “You’re right. Everything you said is right. Heaven is here now.” 

When Bitty pulls the next batch out of the oven, Jack forcefully corrals everyone who already had a brownie away from the table. “We’re sharing,” he says, pointing a stern finger at Puppy and Evan.

“Yeah,” Holster says. “So can you guys make a tunnel or something so I can grab my brownie? Make way.”

Ransom is smiling at him and the brownies smell like joy and now one is warm in Holster’s hand. He makes his way back to Lardo, grinning through a mouthful of fudge. “Yumnh,” he says, licking crumbs off his fingers.

“Same,” Lardo says.

“Dex!” Chad yells. “Get your ass in here and try a brownie! Bitty baked them and they’ll cure your freckles!”

Dex, who must have just come into La Church, is staring at them like he’s never seen anything so bizarre. Which is fair, considering how bizarre it is for fourteen people to be crammed into a tiny kitchen. “Brownies?” he repeats, as if it’s a foreign expression.

“Hot chocolate fudge brownies!” Chowder beams.

Dex sucks in his cheeks like he’s tasting something sour. “I’m good. Not really into the whole baking thing. Thanks, though.”

“That was rude,” Ola stage-whispers, but they just have to watch as Dex retreats from the kitchen. 

Marty cups his hands to shout, “Dex! Come back! Nursey isn’t even in here.”

While the room erupts in laughter, Holster starts to go out into the living room to see if he can drag Dex back. “Dude, leave him,” Chad says. “He needs to lock himself in his room and work on his coding shit for a couple hours. Daily ritual for him.”

Holster shrugs and takes a step back into the kitchen. He’d seen plainly that Dex had plopped onto the couch in the living room, but he’s not going to bother getting Dex to come back if his own team doesn’t care. One more brownie for him. 

“Well, now we have enough for seconds, but not enough for everyone to have one,” Bitty remarks, but he’s guarding the plate of brownies with his body likes he expects a riot to break out. He’s probably not wrong. “Let’s settle this like reasonable people, please.”

“Maybe the hockey team should get first dibs,” Ransom suggests. “Since they’re our guests.”

“You guys are hosting, so you should get first dibs,” Holster counters. He’s never turned down one of Bitty’s brownies before. If he didn’t already know he was in love, this would be an obvious clue. 

Maybe too obvious. He tenses and wonders if anyone will pick up on what’s going on. He doesn’t know if he’s scared or if he’s actually hoping for their secret to be out. 

But Lardo just shoves him, shaking her head, while Marty grabs Ransom and pretends to check his eyes for a concussion or something. “What’s gotten into you, dude? Fight for your right to hoard all the brownies!” 

Ola stands on a chair and whistles, loud and clear. Holster is impressed. Mostly because he can’t whistle with his fingers like that. “Captains get first dibs. Then the captains can take turns picking from their own teams. Sound fair?”

“Hell yeah,” Chad says, and grabs a brownie. 

Chowder frantically shakes Jack’s shoulder. “I know you’re giving one to Bitty, but maybe you should give your next pick to Holster? Because of, you know, April…” 

Right. April. Holster gives a halfhearted attempt to look pained. Again, he wonders what would happen if he threw caution to the wind and told everyone that he’d moved on. That he was with Ransom, and they were happy. Would they be happy for him?

“Fuck that,” Shitty yelps. “Holster betrayed us all by trying to give our dibs to the lax team. Remember how we’re best friends forever, Jack? I hope you remember that when you’re picking who gets a brownie.”

“Maybe someone should chase Dex down and give him one,” Bitty suggests. “Since he never had one in the first place. And he didn’t seem to have fun last night, so, I don’t know, maybe it would help.”

“He had his chance,” Conrad says. “I’ll eat his brownie for him. It’s what he would have wanted.”

“Yeah, poor Dex,” says Puppy, who seems to be about five seconds behind in the conversation. From what Holster knows of Puppy, this is unsurprising. “He was, like, really pissed last night. I think he ditched the party halfway through.”

“It’s just ‘cause of Nursey,” Marty says. The Nursey in question is currently on a class trip to an art museum in Boston; naturally, those left behind are more than happy to gossip about him. “He gets crazy heated whenever Nursey’s around. Which I don’t get, because I’m a big Nursey fan.” 

“Okay, but, to be fair, Nursey is way less chill when he’s around Dex,” Shitty says. “It’s like, there goes Derek, our favorite thoughtful, slightly snarky English major, and then Dex walks in the room and _boom_ , he’s a totally different person.”

Holster runs his tongue over his teeth, and decides – fuck it, he’s going to say whatever he feels like saying. Bring up a cross-team relationship, even if it’s an imaginary one that’s not his own. Test the waters. “You know it’s ‘cause he likes Dex, right? Like, he _like_ likes him?”

“Ew, you sound like a fourth grader when you say that,” Ola says. “But seriously? Did he tell you this?” She loves a good rumor.

Too late, Holster remembers that Dex is sitting right out in the living room, probably listening to every word they’re saying. Well, he might as well commit. “Yep. He’s crushing pretty hard. But since it’s pretty obvious that Dex hates his guts, he tries to cover up his feelings by acting like a douche. It’s kind of annoying for the rest of us to deal with, but I get why he does it.”

There. Holster may have just violated some general rule of human decency, but if Dex is at all an okay person, maybe he’ll be nicer to Nursey now. So it’s not all bad.

Holster’s a little surprised, though, that his fake story seems to be totally plausible to everyone else. There’s a general air of excitement, with some brotherly chirps thrown in for good measure, and Marty demands that Chad give Holster one of the last brownies as a reward for ‘being a bro for the cause of true love.’ 

Once the brownies are gone and the subject of potentially playing matchmaker for Dex and Nursey has been beaten into the ground, the kitchen empties out. When Ransom passes Holster, their shoulders brush, and Holster can’t stop himself from smiling goofily for the next ten seconds.

But he has to stay. Because, as fun as his lie was, he needs to make sure at least a few people know it was a lie. 

So when it’s just Holster, Jack, Chad, and Ola in the kitchen – Chad and Ola cuddling at the table and trying to plan out their evening, Jack having shooed Bitty out so he can wash up – Holster clears his throat. “Okay, there’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just admit right now that I’m full of shit.”

Well, that gets their attention. “What did you do this time?” Chad demands, as if he and Holster have a messy history or something. Unfair.

“So, I _might_ have lied about Nursey telling me he likes Dex.” Holster stares at the other three, who are gaping at him silently. “And when I say ‘might,’ I mean definitely. I 100% lied.”

Ola drops her phone on the table. It makes a dramatic _clack_. “Not cool. I was so excited.”

“Why would you do that, Holster?” Jack asks. He sounds genuinely confused, not angry, which is probably good.

“Um.” Holster can’t exactly say that he wanted to see how everyone would react to a different pair of star-crossed lovers in preparation for telling them about Ransom. At least, he can’t tell them without Ransom’s permission. “Because I saw that Dex was still in the living room? And I wanted him to have a reason to try being nicer to Nursey.”

“ _Dude,_ ” Chad says. “We are so on the same page. I did, like, the exact same thing earlier today. Except to Nursey. And not to make them be nicer, because to be honest I don’t give a fuck, but more for the lolz. But, still, I feel like we’re brothers now.” 

Holster isn’t sure he wants Chad to be his brother. He can’t deny that this revelation is really satisfying his innate love of drama, though. “So you’re saying that both Nursey _and_ Dex believe that the other one is secretly pining for them? Just to be clear.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“Shit,” Holster breathes. “We can totally make a play out of this.” 

“No, we can’t,” Jack says sternly. “Holster, as your captain, I’m saying stop. Now.”

Holster blinks innocently. “But we’re in La Church. Technically, Chad is my captain for the weekend.”

“Yeah, and I say go to fucking town with this,” Chad says. 

“It’s invasive,” Jack says, glaring at Holster. “Manipulating your teammates isn’t okay.”

“Then I’ll just manipulate Dex, since he’s not even my teammate,” Holster says. “And nothing says ‘got your back’ like helping a friend find love, so really, I’m being the best teammate _ever_.”

“No.”

“Nursey will thank me later,” Holster promises. 

“Yeah, and I’m thanking you now.” Ola raises her glass of Arnold Palmer to Holster. “This is gonna be the best weekend ever.”

Jack shakes his head. “This is going to blow up in your faces.”

“Like I said. Best weekend ever.”

Chad clinks their glasses. “Chyea.”  


  


**five**

  


  


A typical Saturday at Samwell, at least for Holster, usually consists of a couple hours of homework shit, a few episodes of Parks and Rec, shoving an entire pie down his esophagus, and hitting up whatever that night’s biggest party is.

Yet here he is. Saturday afternoon. And all he’s doing is letting Parks and Rec play on mute, too hyped up to pay attention because he just finished texting Ransom – who’s in a fucking study group, _what_ – about their first date. Which Ransom, apparently, wants to be tonight.

Holster is so goddamn excited. And nervous. All he can do is sing “Tonight” from West Side Story in a purposefully squeaky voice, because he finds this strangely calming. 

“Dude,” Evan says from where he’s lounging on his bed, sipping green tea like a douche and making faces for Snapchat. “Get the fuck out if you’re gonna act like that.”

“It’s not that we hate you, we just can’t stand it at all,” Puppy supplies helpfully.

Holster bounces to his feet. He’s so hyped up; he might as well go pace around the living room or something. It’s too cold to go outside without the promise of Ransom on the other side of the door, but maybe he’ll even go make a fucking snow angel or something. “No problemo, assholes,” he says cheerily.

“Wow, that’s, like, really uncalled for,” Puppy mutters. 

After Holster shuts the door and waltzes down the stairs, he paces for a while. Then he sits on the couch, which is slightly damp? Hopefully because someone just dripped snow on it or something, but fucking _ew_. Then he leans against the wall by the window and pulls out his phone.

He already asked Ransom to send him a selfie. Ransom had been more than happy to oblige, and had actually sent fifteen, which was nice. So far, Holster had only sent him two back, but that was because he was having a bad face day. It was like a bad hair day, but on his whole face.

Feeling lucky, Holster tries another selfie. 

Nope.

Movement catches his eye, and he looks out the window to see Derek Nurse shuffling up the icy driveway to La Church. Now _there’s_ a fucking photogenic asshole. Three weeks ago, someone had submitted a candid shot to the Wellie twitter of Nursey mid-sneeze, and he’d still looked like a model.

It’s kind of frustrating, to be honest. Holster can almost understand, briefly, why Dex is always pissed at Nursey; Dex seems to share Holster’s prolixity for bad face days. What was it Dex had said at the party last night? Holster had only heard him as vague background noise after he left Ransom in the attic, but he was pretty sure Dex had called Nursey a ‘smirking bag of dicks who people only tolerate because of his nice ass.’ If Holster remembers correctly, Dex had continued, mumbling, ‘...and face. And mouth. And hair. You asshole.’ 

Dex had been pretty drunk at the time. And Holster knows that literally every person on campus feels comfortable admitting that Nursey is a fine specimen – there was a Facebook page dedicated to the kid’s smile, and it had 800 fans – but still. Maybe Dex _did_ like Nursey. In a weird, twisted, hate-sex kind of way, yeah, but it was _something_.

Holster quickly takes a pic of Nursey once he’s closer to La Church, then ducks into the bathroom because he feels creepy as fuck. An idea has just come to him, and the fact that it’s a terrible idea somehow makes it all the more appealing. He loads up the Twitter page for Wellie, the anonymous account that hosts all the dumb memes and gossip generated by Samwell students. 

Holster opens a DM to Wellie, and uploads the photo of Nursey. He adds the comment, **“Hate to see him come within 5 ft of me, LOVE to watch his ass as he leaves/approaches/stands still”** with a healthy dosage of three eggplant emojis at the end. 

So he may be aware of the fact that Dex is That Guy who uses a lot of eggplant emojis. Whatever.

“Cycle complete,” Holster mutters under his breath as he hits send. Wellie might not even publish his submission, but after Holster went out of his way to make Dex think Nursey likes him, he may as well do something to make Nursey think Dex likes him, too. He’s all about equal opportunity.

And when Holster steps out of the bathroom, he sees that Dex and Nursey are standing in the living room, arguing about the empty bags of chips on the floor and who should throw them away. Neither of them notices Holster, and now if Wellie _does_ publish his submission, Nursey will know that Dex was right there at the scene of the crime.

Holster feels like a criminal mastermind.  


  


**six**

  


  


It’s been a weird day.

Derek had tripped walking up the driveway to La Church, which was normal, and had argued with Dex until his heart was racing with anger, which was normal, but after he’d cleared out of La Church to work on some of his homework, things had – changed.

First, the barista at Annie’s had called him up to get his order by using the name _Darrell._ He’d finished writing his art history essay without crying once. And, strangest of all, he’d read the William Wordsworth poems assigned for his British Literature course and fucking _enjoyed_ them. 

William _Wordsworth_.

So when Derek is leaving Annie’s and feels his phone buzzing, then finds a brutal chirp-fest in the SMH groupchat that’s somehow about him, or about a picture of him on Wellie’s twitter page, he’s barely surprised.

When Derek gets the post loaded up, he misses his next step and almost falls flat on his face. 

There are… several things.

Thing #1: This picture was clearly taken from La Church’s living room. There are lots of people who could have taken it, but – 

Thing #2: The caption says that whoever took the picture can’t stand to be within five feet of him. First of all, rude, but also, Derek is a wonderful human with a charming personality, and he can only think of two people currently staying in La Church who don’t want to be near him: Dex – obviously – and Conrad, because Conrad hates everybody.

Thing #3: The content of the post is. Flirtatious. Or objectifying, at the very least, which Derek has absolutely no problem with. And between the two people who don’t like him, Dex is gay and Conrad is so straight he once said ‘no homo’ when Derek was polite and said ‘bless you’ after Conrad _sneezed_. 

That probably rules Conrad right out.

Thing #4: Eggplant emojis. The shared groupchat between the men’s hockey and lacrosse teams (creatively titled **brooooo** ) hasn’t been active for a few weeks, but Derek does remember a certain prickly redhead using a _lot_ of eggplant emojis, despite being relentlessly chirped for it.

And let’s not even get started on what he thought he’d heard Chad say earlier that day. Because he loves Chad, but Chad is a gigantic douche, and there was such a realistic chance that Chad had been messing with him – but this wasn’t Chad. Because Derek can see that this picture was taken just a few hours ago when he briefly went back to La Church, and Chad hadn’t been there. He’d been out with Ola.

Dex had been there, though. Like, Derek was just observing that Dex had totally been there, whatever that meant in the context of this increasingly weird day.

He comes into sight of La Church now, and _shit_ this street is icy. 

Earlier this morning, Jack had done his asshole-Canadian-monotone-teasing thing, looking Nursey in the eye and saying, “Careful, bud, don’t want to find out that you broke your head open on the ice just because you were thinking about Shakespeare too much to watch where you were stepping. You can’t read Shakespeare with your head broken, Nurse.” 

He isn’t going to fall and break his head, or any other part of his body. And just for the record, he’s not even that big of a Shakespeare fan compared to the other English majors. He just wants someone to agree with him that Titus Andronicus would be a great Tarantino movie, thank you very much. 

Derek makes it to the driveway without slipping, which is awesome, but he’s so busy carefully watching where he places his feet that he doesn’t notice someone shoveling the driveway until he walks straight into them and almost falls over for real.

“Ugh,” the person grunts, and even as Derek is struggling to balance and can’t look up yet, he knows it’s Dex. “Watch the fuck where you’re – oh. Nurse.”

And this seems backwards. Dex should be polite until he realizes it’s him, then become a raging asshole, not the other way around.

“Oops,” Derek says. He always regresses to acting more childlike when he’s nervous, which is the stupidest fucking defense mechanism ever, but whatever. “Didn’t see you there.”

“Well, yeah,” Dex says. He chews his lip and looks away. 

Derek thinks about eggplant emojis. 

“Where were you?” Dex blurts out, and his eyes are intentionally widened, his jaw clenched tight, like he’s forcing himself to – Derek isn’t sure what. Pay attention, be normal, not yell. But whatever it is, it’s cute as fuck.

Wait, did Derek just think that?

He shakes it off, but tries to match Dex’s courteous tone. “Just at Annie’s. You know, churning out a couple papers. Flexing the ol’ creativity.” This is a lie; he only wrote one paper, and even though he didn’t cry over how bad it was, he’s pretty sure it was terrible. 

“Huh,” Dex says, and he looks down as he scrapes the shovel over the surface of the driveway. Not actually accomplishing anything, just a nervous little motion. “Well, cool. Uh, I think Bitty made cookies? Maybe peanut butter or something. They smell good. You should go in and get some. I mean, get one. Um.” Dex grips the shovel tighter. He nods at the ground. “Sounds good.”

“Yeah, it does sound good,” Derek says, and he can’t help smiling at how awkward this is. Some of his smile probably seeps into his tone, but Dex doesn’t look up. “Hey, how about I save you one? I can even bring it out here if you do a real good job with the snow.” Fuck, he sounds like he’s trying to be kinky, which he’s _not_ , no no no.

But Dex doesn’t seem to register it. “Oh, sounds good,” he says, finally looking up. “I mean – cool. Shit.”

“Cool,” Derek echoes, waving as he sidesteps Dex to head inside where it’s nice and warm. “See you later.”

“Mm-hmm,” he hears Dex squeak back.

And shit, Derek’s going to have to text his moms later. He might owe them a couple bucks on a bet he _never_ thought he’d lose.  


  


**seven**

  


  


It’s been a long, confusing, stressful day, full of studying, freaking out, correspondence from schools he applied to ages ago, one short anxiety attack, one slightly longer anxiety attack, and over a dozen adorable texts from Holster. And now Ransom has to leave for his date with Holster in three minutes, but – he’s going to gag from the stereotypical-ness of it all – he doesn’t know what to wear.

Or. Like. He knows what he _should_ wear, which is dark jeans and a light cashmere sweater, because he always looks adorable in that outfit, but this date is a _secret_. And the dramatic part of his personality (which, being totally honest, is the main part of his personality) wants to embrace the whole Mission Impossible situation and wear a spy outfit. All black, possibly including dark paint under his eyes, and if he can steal the horrible black stocking hat he saw Jack Zimmermann wearing the other day, all the better. 

After a serious inner debate, Ransom decides that, while Holster would probably share his joy over pretending to be spies, he’s been asked out on a _date_ , so he needs to dress accordingly.

Cashmere it is.

He and Holster have planned to meet up a few doors down from Jerry’s, then sneak in once Holster gets the all-clear signal from the guy he knows there. 

The walk to Jerry’s is just long enough for his mind to get the best of him, and Ransom’s brain is thoroughly buzzing by the time he spots Holster looking conspicuous as hell as he leans against the bookstore two doors down from Jerry’s.

 _He likes you right now,_ Ransom tells himself. _This could be long-term or short-term, but he likes you right now, and that’s what matters._ His smile when he catches Holster’s eye is shaky but genuinely excited, and Ransom can feel himself calm down when Holster springs forward and grabs his hand. 

“You’re here,” Holster breathes. “My buddy Johnson just told me everything’s ready for us, so do you wanna go in? He says he’s sorry he can’t stick around to meet you, but he doesn’t want to get overexposed in the main storyline. He’s weird like that. But, anyway, you ready?”

“Hell yeah,” Ransom says, and squeezes Holster’s fingers with his own. “What do you got there?”

Holster glances down at the two pizza boxes balanced on his other hand. “One Hawaiian, one cheese.”

“I love Hawaiian,” Ransom says in wonder. He was almost evicted from La Church for this quirk of taste buds. He isn’t sure if Holster knows this, or just had a lucky guess.

“Dude, really? Me too.” Holster’s face brightens even more, and he tugs Ransom toward Jerry’s. “Let’s go eat.” 

Even though Holster’s friend Johnson hadn’t prepared any food for them, it almost takes Ransom’s breath away to see what he’s done with Jerry’s. All of the lights are out, but three adjacent booths are decked with candles, and the middle booth has been set with plates, silverware, and drinking glasses. There’s even a mason jar with a few sprigs of -- well, a few sprigs of something; Ransom isn’t a flower expert, but it’s blue and pretty. 

“This is perfect,” he says quietly, and watches with satisfaction as Holster beams. 

They both squeeze into the same side of their booth, which is a tight fit but feels right. Actually, a big part of the reason it feels right is _because_ it’s a tight fit; Ransom snuggles under Holster’s arm and props his chin on Holster’s shoulder, where he can breathe in the warm, woodsy scent that his body has learned to recognize as safety, peace, acceptance – as Holster – during the last twenty-four hours.

Holster runs his hand up and down Ransom’s arm, and when he offers Ransom the first slice of Hawaiian pizza, it’s the most romantic thing in the world, at least in Ransom’s eyes. “How’s your day been?” Holster asks, as if he and Ransom aren’t literally living in the same house for the weekend.

“Good,” Ransom says. “First thing I did this morning was make out with this huge hockey player—“

“I’m two inches taller than you!”

“—and after I studied for an hour, I had a super fucking awesome hot fudge brownie.”

“Uh-huh, wow,” Holster chirps, acting like this is the most interesting story he’s ever heard.

Ransom elbows him. “Come to think of it, that brownie was probably the best part of my day. Yep, definitely.”

Holster snickers. “Your Canadian accent was so strong there, bro. _Yep._ ”

“Shut up,” Ransom groans as Holster leans down and kisses the edge of his forehead, and there’s no denying that this feels like home. 

Which could derail Ransom’s plans. Which he should be anxious about.

But he’s not.

“Oh, shit, I forgot to grab the Coke out of the fridge,” Holster says. “You’re on the outside, you go get it.”

“That wasn’t very date-like,” Ransom sniffs. He’s teasing, but he immediately regrets it, because what if Holster thinks he’s actually upset?

But Holster reaches down and squeezes Ransom’s knee, and there’s no tension in his voice when he says, “I promise that when we’re done eating, we will make out so hard that your grandchildren will know this was a date. Now go get the Coke; we’ll be thirsty without it.”

“That’s kind of weird and not romantic at all. Plus, why after we eat? I don’t want your pizza breath all in my mouth.”

“Fine,” Holster says, affecting a sigh, and he gently takes Ransom by the shoulders, turning him around for a better angle. Ransom leans in, already greedy for this, and sighs as Holster pushes his tongue into his mouth. For a minute or so, all Ransom can feel is Holster’s tongue sliding against his own, Holster’s hands – one light against Ransom’s jawline, one clutching his sweater to pull him close – and the overwhelming wash of adrenaline pumping through his veins, the sensation of not having enough breath, feeling his heartbeat everywhere, that he normally associates with a panic attack, but it feels essential now, like something he’d never voluntarily give up.

They only stop when Ransom forgets where they are and starts trying to climb into Holster’s lap, which is a hopeless endeavor and causes the whole table to jolt as Ransom’s hip bangs against it. 

“Shit, ow,” Ransom grumbles, pulling his head away from Holster. “I hate this booth.”

“Aw,” Holster says. He lays his hand over Ransom’s hip and rubs it like he’s a nurse instead of just desperate for more physical contact. “But wanna go get that Coke now?”

Ransom gets up, stretching. “ _Fine_. But is it actually meant for us? Or are we stealing from Jerry’s right now?”

“I dunno,” Holster says. “All Johnson said is that it’s there, and that we should take some if we want it.”

Ransom stares at him. “That’s not comforting.”

“Look,” Holster says, “I can play some inspirational music if it’ll help.” He grabs his phone and, after a moment, starts playing the Mission Impossible theme music. “Ready to go, Agent Ransom?”

“That is so cheesy,” Ransom says, his heart soaring. “I – yeah, I’ve got this.” Probably not a good idea to say _I love you_ on the first date just because they both thought of Mission Impossible, but it had been a pretty close thing there. 

Ransom makes a big show of making it to the fridge behind Jerry’s bar, looking over his shoulder and even performing a neat somersault. “Am I better than Tom Cruise?” he demands, returning to Holster with a bottle of Coke in hand a minute later.

“You’re a million times better,” Holster says, the expression on his face too dopey for words, and Ransom’s heart is so full that he can’t even chirp Holster for it.

They destroy the pizzas and guzzle down the entire bottle of Coke between them, leaning into each other and letting the warm silence do the talking for them.

As the food settles, Ransom can’t believe he’s suddenly allowed to be this happy when he’d never even imagined feeling settled here, and he kisses Holster’s fingers and looks out the window. Holster is practically on the verge of falling asleep, but he’s still smiling at Ransom.

“Look,” Ransom whispers, kissing Holster’s thumb again and nodding toward the window. “Is that the moon?”

Holster stares back at him, and Ransom can almost see the moonlight reflected in his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you love their love as much as I do. And now BOTH main romantic plots are rolling, so yay.
> 
> Is Johnson the Friar? Yep. And if you're familiar with Much Ado, Puppy is Dogberry, although I didn't put in quite as many malapropisms as I'd originally planned. Damn you, Puppy.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's commented! I love hearing what people like. And if you're worried that Holster and Ransom are both going to tragically die....... _maybe_. (JK JK)


	3. Act Three

**one**

  


_February 8, 2015_

“Sunday morning, you sure look fine,” a slightly nasal voice sings, and Ransom can hear grumbles and complaints coming from upstairs. “Friday, I’ve got travelin’ on my mind…”

“It’s _Monday_ morning!” Shitty yells from the basement, probably waking up Conrad in the process. “Monday!”

“No, it’s Sunday morning!” Evan screams back cheerfully, and walks into the kitchen. 

Ransom has left Holster standing at the kitchen sink, where they’d been making out until Evan’s singing warned them of his approach; now he’s sitting at the table, heaping granola into his yogurt and trying to look like he hadn’t just had a 6’4” hockey player’s knee between his legs. 

“I meant the song, you idiot,” Ransom hears Shitty grumble loudly.

Evan opens the fridge, then shivers. “Brr. It’s cold.” He ignores Holster, which is to be expected, and tosses an orange at Ransom. Then he looks out the window and groans. “Fuck, that’s a lot of snow. I’m gonna go put on a shirt.”

“If you think that’ll help,” Ransom shrugs. 

After Evan departs, and now that Fleetwood Mac is stuck in Ransom’s head, he turns to look at Holster. “Want some of this orange?” 

“Dude, we’re alone for what might be the only time all day, especially since nobody’s driving in that—“ he jams his thumb at the window and the heavy blanket of snow covering everything the light touches, “—so no, I don’t want your orange, I want you to get back over here.” 

Ransom stares at the five feet between them. It seems so far. “But I just got comfortable. I’m sitting down. Why don’t you come over _here_?”

“Did I ever mention that lacrosse players are super lazy?” Holster complains, but he settles into the chair next to Ransom and slides a slightly wet kiss across Ransom’s neck. 

“Ew, no,” Ransom whines. “I’m extra ticklish in the mornings, stop.”

“How can you be extra ticklish in—“

A muffled shout from outside causes Ransom to pull away, and he distinctly hears Dex’s voice. The words are less distinct, but he strongly suspects Dex is yelling ‘what the fuck is wrong with you,’ or something along those lines.

“That killed the moment,” Holster says gloomily, and then the moment is truly ruined by the sound of what must be at least five D1 athletes crashing down the stairs. “Guess they heard it too.”

“Ugh, they’re fucking in the front yard,” Ransom hears Conrad say.

“No, dude, they’re, like, fighting each other. See, that’s why they’re rolling around?”

“Yeah, thanks, Puppy.” 

Ransom and Holster tiptoe out into the entryway, where ten college athletes – plus Lardo and Ola – are staring out the little window by the front door and whispering to each other.

Eventually, Jack sighs. “I guess we have to go out and make them stop, eh?”

“ _Eh,_ ” Chad mocks automatically. “Actually, yeah, you’re from Canada, so you have to do it. Snow doesn’t bother you.”

Jack shakes his head, but he pulls on his winter boots and starts rummaging through the hall closet for his coat. “Chowder, I found your coat first, so you’re coming with me,” he says, tossing the navy blue parka at Chowder.

“At this rate, they’ll have literally killed each other by the time we’re ready to go outside,” Camilla says. “Can’t someone just go storming out there and pull them off each other before they break something?”

“Yeah, let your adrenaline warm you,” Ola suggests.

Ransom feels the soft breath of Holster’s sigh behind him. “Fine. But someone has to make me hot chocolate afterward.” He sprints outside in his bare feet, sweatpants, and t-shirt, screaming, “Nursey, you’re better than this!” –and it’s the bravest thing Ransom’s ever seen.

“I’ll go make the hot chocolate,” he says to the room at large, and goes back into the kitchen.

  


\----

  


Four minutes later, when Holster’s wrapped up in a blanket, sipping on cocoa, his feet resting on Bitty’s microwavable corn bags, Ransom likes that he can use the heat packs under Holster’s feet as an excuse to keep sticking his feet under Holster’s in an attempt to steal the corn bags for himself.

Dex and Nursey are hunched over at the table, dripping all over the kitchen floor. Nursey has a frozen bag of peas pressed against his face -- not because Dex punched him or anything, but because Holster tripped in the snow and caught Nursey with his elbow as he came crashing down. “Even when I’m not the clumsy one, I still manage to look like I am,” Nursey had said sadly as he examined his swelling eye in the mirror.

Chad and Jack had already gotten the story out of Dex and Nursey -- Nursey had thrown a snowball right at Dex’s face; Dex had taken it way too personally; a wrestling match with the end goal of giving each other hypothermia had ensued. 

Now Dex and Nursey are refusing to look at each other, despite being forced to sit side by side, and it’s super goofy. Ransom knows they’re freshmen, but still. 

“Why were you out there anyway?” Ola snaps. “Who’s awake at 8:30 in the morning?”

“I always get up at seven,” Dex mutters.

“Who goes outside when there’s a fucking blizzard?” Chad demands.

Nursey adjusts his bag of peas. “It was a winter wonderland.”

“Why are you always so _annoying!_ ” Dex shouts, and he looks like he’s seconds away from starting to tear out his own hair. Ransom feels his own heart beating faster, which is stupid, but angry people have always made him slightly uncomfortable.

Chad shakes his head. “Dex, go to your room. You’re driving me crazy.”

Dex gets up dramatically, pushing his chair in with a loud _bang_. “Whatever,” he says. “It was Nursey’s fault.” 

“Someone’s in tro-o-uble,” Nursey sings softly. 

Chad pushes against the spot where Nursey’s holding the frozen peas against his black eye; Nursey yelps. “Go to your room, too.”

Dex snickers from outside the kitchen.

“You’re not my real dad,” Nursey says, looking to Jack for backup. Jack just shrugs.

“You’re in my house, and I’m the captain, so go to your room,” Chad says. He poses no threats, yet his tone is clearly threatening.

Nursey groans like this is all too stupid – and it is, of course, but that’s how things are here – and gets up. “Whatever. My room is your room, remember? Since you’re the one sharing with me.”

“Fine. Then go to Conrad’s room.”

“Hey!”

Nursey shrugs. He leaves, exchanging relatively mild ‘fuck you’s with Dex, and then Ransom can hear Dex’s footsteps going up the stairs and Nursey’s footsteps going down to the basement.

“Great,” Chad says. “Now we can decide what the fuck to do about them.”

Ransom knows what Holster is going to say before he even says it. “I still like my plan. The one with the matchmaking shenanigans.” And yep, Ransom was right.

“You mean the one with the manipulation and lying,” Bitty says.

“Well, when you put it that way, it sounds less fun,” Ransom says softly. 

It makes him way too happy when Bitty smiles back at him, even when the smile is accompanied by a gentle eyeroll. 

“I like Holster’s plan too, but it’s better if we don’t use the word ‘shenanigans,’” Chad says. “They clearly have some sexual tension they need to work out.”

“Um, no?” Shitty says. “What the hell? It’s creepy as all fuck to try and trick them into thinking that. Seriously, Holster?”

Holster shrugs. “They’re in love?”

“Just because they’re both gay – well, bi in Nursey’s case – doesn’t mean they’re automatically in love,” Lardo says. “You can’t just assume you’re doing them a favor.”

“No, we’re doing the entire fucking school a favor,” Chad says. “If they hook up, they’ll probably stop being so goddamn annoying every time they’re within ten feet of each other.”

“Also, they’re, like, really into each other,” Camilla says. “Can’t you guys tell?”

Holster bounces on his toes, starting to look more and more excited. “This is gonna be incredible. Legendary. I’m straight up going to be the best man at their wedding, that’s what’s happening here.”

“Holster, I don’t want to be insensitive, but are you just doing this because you’re trying to distract yourself from April?” Bitty asks delicately. 

“Huh?” Holster looks embarrassed, and Ransom tries to ignore the automatic feeling of fear that Holster might actually still be hung up on April. Ransom knows about the April thing. It’s _fine_.

Chowder looks forlorn. “But wouldn’t I be their best man?”

“Hey, let’s vote on this,” Ola says, and Ransom forces himself to tune back in. He wants to vote for true love, obviously. 

“Raise your hand if you want to help with Operation Manipulation,” Ola says with a meaningful look at Bitty.

Ransom shoots up his hand; Chad and Holster’s hands are up too. “Don’t like the name, though,” Holster adds.

“We can change the name later,” Ola says. “And I’m in, too. Anyone else?”

Camilla raises her hand. Puppy high-fives her and puts his hand up as well.

“Puppy, no,” Bitty groans. “You know not what you do.”

“Anyone else?” Ola persists. “Chowder? You love Nursey and Dex. Evan? You gotta do what Puppy’s doing, right?”

“Nah, I’ll just observe,” Evan says. 

Chowder just lowers his face onto the kitchen table and sighs. 

“It can be Operation Gingersnaps,” Holster suggests. “‘Cause Dex is a ginger. And they always _snap_ at each other. Ha.”

Ransom cringes and offers no support.

“Operation Shenanigans,” Evan says, looking pointedly at Chad. 

“Dude, I thought you said this whole thing was stupid,” Lardo says. 

Evan takes back the orange he’d given Ransom earlier, since Ransom hadn’t even unpeeled it. “It’s definitely stupid,” he says. “I just want to give it a name that annoys Chad.”

“What if we call it Operation Stupid?” Puppy asks. “Will you join then?”

“Puppy,” Evan says. “You are going to kill me. I’m going to die because of you.”

“Operation Puppylove,” Camilla giggles.

“Because we all love Puppy!” Chowder beams, even though he’s not part of the group.

Ola looks like she might be experiencing a migraine. “Enough. Let’s just call it Operation Cupid and make it our goal to get them together by Valentine’s Day. It’s coming up pretty soon, in case any of you are dating me and don’t have any plans yet, Chad.”

“Yeah, and we can talk in code and call it The OC for short!” Camilla says. Ransom is _kind of_ sharing in her excitement, but he tries not to let it show. “Then they’ll think we’re just talking about the TV show.”

“Camilla, that show’s been dead for, like, six years,” Conrad says. “Also, what are you doing here? You don’t even live here.”

“Neither does Ola!”

“She’s dating Chad, what the fuck are you even talking about.”

Camilla shrugs. “Operation Cupid it is, then.”

Shitty groans suddenly, dropping his face into his hands. “I just thought of the best name ever. But I can’t tell you because I’m protesting this whole idea. God, I hate my life.”

“Come on, Shitty,” Holster urges. “Just drop your morals and tell us the name.”

“ _No._ ” Shitty sits back up. “I’m not gonna tell them about your evil scheming, and in order to atone for that I have to keep this incredibly witty name from you.”

“Good point,” Ola says. “Marty, Evan, Conrad? Hockey team members who aren’t as cool as Holster? Can you promise that you won’t tell them about this or interfere in any way?”

After a little bit of grumbling, mostly from Bitty, everyone agrees, and the plan is in motion. 

And just like that, an alliance has been forged to bring about a love connection between the lacrosse and hockey teams. This could work, Ransom is realizing. If Operation Cupid is a success, he won’t have any reason not to tell the team about Holster. 

He’s liking this Sunday morning.

  


**two**

  


Ransom and Camilla are sitting side by side on his bed, both on their laptops and trying to tune out Dex singing “Fast Car” in the shower – having a bathroom connected to his room is usually a good thing, but sometimes his housemates’ out-of-tune singing tries his patience.

He’s just finishing up the cherry peppermint mocha he picked up earlier from Jerry’s, and is starting to wonder if it’s going to be his turn to sleep on the floor that night. He’d ask Bitty, but as soon as he saw Ransom’s drink and realized Jerry’s was open, Bitty had dragged Jack off for a snowy afternoon date.

Camilla nudges his foot with hers. “Hey, wanna pick up Operation OC once the shower turns off?”

“Stop trying to make Operation OC happen,” Ransom says, glancing toward the door to the bathroom. “Wait, isn’t Operation OC redundant? ‘Cause the O stands for Operation anyway? I thought you wanted to call it The OC.”

“Shut up, you have caffeine and I don’t. But Dex is gonna be out of there soon. Our time to strike approaches.”

Ransom yawns and stretches big. “Fine.” Just then, the roar of the shower disappears. “—I know, I’ll never understand why Dex is always such a dick to Nursey.”

Camilla makes an _oh shit_ face and waves her hands around in panic. But her voice, when she does speak, sounds completely casual. “Well, I mean, I think we both know _why_. But Nursey is so funny and awesome, I’m really glad I’m getting the chance to get to know him better this weekend.”

Ransom can’t help but give Camilla a sarcastic, disbelieving look at that. She hasn’t talked to Nursey at all, as far as he knows, and has spent all her time at La Church with either himself or Lardo. “Yeah. Nursey’s super great. But he’s actually really sensitive too, which I guess isn’t a huge surprise since he, like, reads poetry all the time, but it gets a little much when Dex is always at his throat, you know? I feel like Dex hates him for no reason and it’s gotta be hurting Nursey’s feelings.”

“Yeah,” Camilla sighs, getting way too into it. “Nursey’s sorta cocky sometimes, but I think it’s really obvious he just wants everyone to like him.”

“Especially Dex,” Ransom adds, and silently cracks up. He’s honestly expecting Dex to storm into the room at any moment, because how the fuck would he not see through this, but it’s dead silent on the other side of the bathroom door; Ransom hasn’t heard Dex exit through the bathroom’s door to the hallway either. 

That means Dex is still listening. So Ransom needs to pull himself together, shit.

“Especially Dex,” Camilla agrees, grinning at Ransom. “But he just hates Nursey so much.”

“Sometimes I think he hates everything, though, so whatever,” Ransom sputters out. He hasn’t exactly succeeded at pulling himself together.

Camilla grabs his knee to stable herself, as she’s shaking with suppressed laughter. “Do you think he acts like he hates Nursey all the time just to cover up how attracted to him he is? That’s my working theory.”

Ransom falls over in noisy peals of laughter, which barely are enough to disguise the sound of the hallway door opening as Dex escapes. “Camilla, you—“ he gasps for breath, “—you ruin everything.”

“I was running out of things to say,” she says, hiccuping through a serious case of the giggles. “Jesus. Okay. I’m going to keep looking at memes of dead painters, and you’re going to do whatever it is you were doing before, and neither of us is going to have an asthma attack and die. Okay?”

“Okay,” Ransom says. He has to wipe his eyes, he’d been laughing so hard. “Do you want the last of my drink, babe?”

“Oh, yeah, thank you,” Camilla says. As soon as Ransom hands her the cup, she scowls at him. “Asshole. Thanks a lot.”

“This bitch empty! Yeet!” Ransom snickers. When Camilla just stares at him, he sighs and takes her laptop in his own hands. “Oh my god, I can’t believe you didn’t get that. Get ready to be _educated_.”

Camilla groans. “Only if you’ll look at all the classical art memes with me afterward.”

“Deal.”

  


**three**

  


While it is true that the hockey and lacrosse teams had put their feud behind them – mostly – it’s also true that this tentative peace would crumble if the two teams ever played video games together. So the lax bros – minus Ransom, wherever the fuck he ran off to – are in the basement playing Mario Kart, while the hockey bros have free rein over the rest of the house. 

Chad’s sitting out, because he hates Mario Kart with a passion, but Ola’s playing for him and demolishing Puppy and Evan; she’s going to come in second, because Marty always wins. Dex and Conrad are scrolling through Conrad’s twitter and talking shit while they wait their turn. 

“I’d fuck her,” Conrad says. “What do you think?”

“Still gay,” Dex says, sounding bored.

“I know, I meant hypothetically. If you were into chicks.”

Puppy looks up from the screen, and he sucks so much that it really doesn’t affect his driving. “Conrad, stop objecting women.” 

“It’s objectifying,” Ola says. “And quit trying to make Dex pretend to be straight, too.”

Conrad looks to Dex for support, which doesn’t appear to be coming anytime soon. “What the fuck? I’m not trying to do any of those things; I’m just trying to have a conversation, Jesus. Can’t he say what he thinks about a girl without being straight?” 

“She looked boring,” Dex shrugs. “Her lipstick was good, though.”

“See?” Conrad says. “Not a big deal. He can say if a girl’s attractive or not. The world didn’t end.”

Evan stares at him. “Whatever, where was that attitude when I said if I had to date one of you, it’d be Puppy? Why was _that_ such a big deal?” 

“‘Cause no one even asked you, dumbass,” Chad says. “Nobody even cares which of us you’d date, what the fuck.”

“ _I_ care,” Puppy tells Evan.

“Oh my god, Ransom’s on the Wellie twitter,” Conrad says, and he shoves his phone in Dex’s face. “There. Would you date him? Is that better?”

“Give me the phone, you dumb shit,” Chad says. “Stop harassing the freshman.” He looks at the photo. That’s definitely Ransom. The picture was taken at night, and Ransom looks like he’s inside – is that Jerry’s? He’s barely visible, as the only light in the place looks like it’s coming from candles or some shit. Ransom’s standing next to the bar where drinks are served, his shoulders hunched in to make himself look smaller and his expression dramatically wary, like he’s hoping that nobody sees him. 

The caption reads: **New lax bro is either robbing Jerry’s or hooking up, lol**. 

“The fuck?” Chad says. “Look at this.” 

Marty wins at Mario Kart, and everyone puts down their controllers as the phone is passed around. “Maybe he’s hooking up,” Evan comments. “Or it could be a drug deal? I dunno, looks shady.”

“Ransom buys his stuff from that guy in our accounting class, dumbass,” Dex says. “He wouldn’t do that in Jerry’s.”

“But this does look, like, super surreptitious,” Marty says. “But, aww, candles! It’s gotta be a date! Which doesn’t explain why it’s surreptitious. Maybe he didn’t like her, or him, and tried to sneak away.”

“I love the Wellie,” Puppy says. “It’s so funny.”

Evan stares at him. “Dude.”

Conrad grabs his phone back from Ola. “We can just ask Ransom what he’s doing. He lives here, you know.”

Ola’s eyes suddenly light up, and she starts kicking Chad’s ankle excitedly. “Dude! Dude! What if he was with March? If it’s a date, there’s no one else he’d be with!”

“Probably,” Chad says, but he doesn’t sound like he means it.

“Hey, how the fuck is he getting into Jerry’s past closing time, anyway?” Marty demands. “And why wouldn’t he tell us so we can do it, too?”

Puppy grabs Evan’s shoulder. “We could go eat _all_ the pancakes.”

“No, for real,” Marty says. “I bet they wouldn’t notice if I just ate two or three. Some people, not naming any names, need to work on sharing things with their bros. Seriously.”

Conrad looks up from his phone. “Did you say threesome?”

  


**four**

  


Ransom is staring at his duffel bag of spring looks™, wondering if now is finally the time to finish unpacking, when the door to his room creaks open.

“Yeah?” He says, smiling as he turns around because he’s expecting to see Holster. 

It’s not Holster. It is, in fact, Dex, who seems to register belatedly that he’s made a mistake, and quickly raps on the open door in a knock that is more symbolic than practical. “Can I come in?”

“Sure, bro,” Ransom says, and clears off the bed so Dex has space to sit down. 

Dex stands awkwardly – right, he’s the type who doesn’t want to get all cuddly, so maybe Ransom shouldn’t have implicitly suggested they sit on the bed – but gets over it and sits down. “I hate freshmen,” he says sourly.

Ransom pats his shoulder as kindly as he can. “I know. But you _are_ a freshman.”

“I hate freshmen who act like ninth graders,” Dex amends. “Rimmy and Paul are downstairs. I think I would literally blow my brains out if I had to sit there another second.”

“Ouch, that’s not good,” Ransom says. He’s kinda used to Dex’s moods by now, since Dex has really latched onto him during the month that Ransom’s been at Samwell. “What were they doing this time?” 

“Being assholes,” Dex says. “They – do you follow Wellie? On Twitter, I mean?”

“Chyea.” Ransom automatically pulls out his phone to find whatever it is that Dex is so upset about. “Did they post a whack-ass picture of you again?”

“No,” Dex bites out. He has a tendency to make really horrifically ugly faces while he’s concentrating – reading, writing, coding, whatever. Some guys on the team have developed a special relationship with Wellie’s inbox because of this. “But – you have it up? Are you seeing this?”

Scrolling, Ransom almost drops his phone. “Ah!” he yelps. “That’s me. Okay. Anyway, what are we looking for?”

Dex grabs the phone from Ransom, which is slightly annoying but whatever, and then shoves it back after a few seconds. “There. What the fuck is this? Do you know who did it?” 

“Um.” There’s Nursey, looking fine as always, and a caption that just screams that it was written by Dex. “It wasn’t you?”

“No!” Dex explodes. “I don’t – why the _fuck_ is everyone – _God._ ” He does the breathing exercises Ransom taught him to calm down, the ones that make him sound sort of like a dying horse. “You really don’t know who did this? Promise?” 

Ransom might have an inkling, but he speaks honestly. “This is the first time I’ve seen it. I swear.” 

“Okay. I’m gonna try to find out who did it, though. Can you check around, too? I really need to know who it is.”

“Sure, Dex.” Ransom thinks about reaching out to comfort him again, but decides he’d probably get smacked for his trouble. “Are you really upset about this?” 

Dex blows a gust of air out, loud and fast. “Maybe. Depends who it was, I guess. There’s a lot of guys on the team, and I know most of you are cool with the whole – with me being gay, but it just makes sense, statistically, that not everyone is. If whoever made this was being a dick about, you know, _that_ , I’m going to hunt them down.”

“Yikes.”

“I mean it. I came to Samwell for a specific reason, because I want to have things here that I can’t have at home, and if someone wants to mess with that I’m not going to ignore it or act like it’s not happening. They can apologize or they can get the shit kicked out of them. To be honest.”

Ransom’s throat feels dry. God, he hopes this was Puppy, because he’s the only one Dex wouldn’t hold a grudge against. “Well, then I hope they apologize. I’ll let you know if I find out, okay, Dex?”

“Yeah.” Dex sighs, and Ransom can see the tension leaving his shoulders. “I’m gonna go calm down. I’ve got some code to work on, anyway.”

“Okay,” Ransom says, worry creasing his forehead as he watches Dex make his way toward the door. “But coding makes you angrier, remember? Maybe drink some tea?”

Dex shrugs and shuts the door as he goes.

Once he hears Dex’s door open and shut, Ransom opens up his messaging app. He looks at the current (and totally dead) groupchat for the lacrosse and hockey teams to share, and decides he doesn’t want to bug the people who were against the whole matchmaking plan. 

Honestly, he doesn’t want to prove them right either, and that’s a big part of his motivation when he creates a new groupchat – **The OC** , because he loves Camilla – and invites the rest of the morally bankrupt gang.

  


  
**Dr. R** 3:43 PM  
so i think we need to have a group meeting.

**Dr. R** 3:43 PM  
just talked to dex  & he doesn’t kno whats up but we should go over some ground rules so no one accidentally goes too far  


**C-A-M** 3:43 PM  
OMG you gave it the best name!! #DeathToTeamCupid

 **Sweaty Birkenstocks** 3:44 PM  
Okay, should we meet in like 15? Assuming everyone’s still in this godforsaken house somewhere because of the snow?

 **Sweaty Birkenstocks** 3:44 PM  
Oops, forgot Chowder changed my name. This is Holster btw.

 **C-A-M** 3:44 PM  
If we’re all in The OC, I’d definitely be Marissa. It’s tough to decide who everyone else would be, though.

  
**Dr. R** 3:44 PM  
ha ha. but lets focus. meeting in 15?  


**Pu$$y** 3:44 PM  
ok can i be ryan? sometimes ppl say i look like him

 **Pu$$y** 3:45 PM  
i think evan wants to join the club now, he’s jealus lol

 **C-A-M** 3:45 PM  
Change your name, omfg

 **Pu$$y** 3:45 PM  
now that he sees the group chat is LIT 

**The Final Chad** 3:45 PM  
Bro this isn’t even approaching lit keep your shirt on

 **Ola** 3:45 PM  
Is anyone in trouble, Ransom?

  
**Dr. R** 3:46 PM  
no. well unless dex catches u, he’s kinda on the warpath. 

**Dr. R** 3:46 PM  
someone posted a thing on the wellie page that pissed him off  


**The Final Chad** 3:46 PM  
Lol

 **Sweaty Birkenstocks** 3:46 PM  
Oh okay. Also I call being Seth.

 **Ola** 3:46 PM  
What the fuck was I doing with my life while you were all watching this show. Who are these people.

 **C-A-M** 3:46 PM  
We still need a Summer!!! Ransom???

  
**Dr. R** 3:46 PM  
hell yes i accept

**Dr. R** 3:47 PM  
but for real tho lets meet in pup’s room at 4 so we can set boundaries  


  


As Ransom sends his last message, there’s a light tapping at the door. He feels himself grinning like an idiot; it’s gotta be either Holster or Bitty on the other side, since no one else is considerate enough to knock like that. “Yeah!” 

Holster peeks in. “You decent?”

“What the fuck, don’t be weird. Come in.” Ransom smiles as Hoslter fills up the space where Dex had been sitting a few minutes ago. Where Dex’s presence had been tense and tenuous, a black hole of sorts, Holster feels like the sun, warming and inviting. 

Also, yellow as fuck.

“Hey babe,” Ransom says. He drapes his legs over Holster’s lap and leans against the wall where it presses against the foot of his bed. “How you been?”

Holster swats him lightly. “Ugh. So. I might be the person Dex is going to kill.”

“You’re – you wrote that? And _posted_ it?”

“Um. Wellie posted it, to be fair.”

Ransom holds Holster’s gaze. He doesn’t want to glare at him, not really, but he also won’t give in and smile it all away. He feels like Holster crossed a line, maybe accidentally, and it needs to be addressed.

“Okay, not to be fair. To be pedantic. Yeah, I shouldn’t have done that.”

Now Ransom smiles, just a little. “No, you shouldn’t have. Dex came in here and he was _supes_ upset. Like, it wasn’t cool, bro. And you know I – that I like you a lot, but I don’t really get what you were thinking, you know?”

Holster shifts on the bed, but doesn’t let go of where he’s holding onto Ransom’s ankles. “I don’t know if I was thinking at all. I wanted to keep the plan moving, and that was about it.”

“Some of the other freshmen are giving Dex a hard time. He shouldn’t have to deal with that.”

“No,” Holster says quietly. “I fucked up. Are we gonna tell Dex? Maybe we should.”

Ransom nudges his big toe against Holster’s fingers. “I don’t know. I think the plan’s actually kind of decent, and I don’t want to throw it away so fast. Maybe I’ll tell him that I talked to the perp—“

Holster groans.

“—and he said he’s very sorry, and didn’t mean it to make fun of Dex at all, but he’s also very scared of Dex’s boxing skills, so he wants to remain anonymous. That work?”

Holster’s hands still. “Wait, Dex can box?”

“It’s frightening.”

“Shit. Then yeah, let’s just do what you said.”

Ransom sits up and scoots forward until he’s right next to Holster. “Good. And in five minutes, we’ll go back to your room and make sure everyone’s on the same page so Dex doesn’t get so upset again.”

“Or Nursey,” Holster says. “He’s sensitive.”

“Cool,” Ransom says. And they have five minutes, so they use them.

  


**five**

  


Evan had kept his headphones blasting while Puppy’s “meeting,” or whatever it was, had been going on, but after the group has dispersed – including Holster, who had barely spent any time in their room apart from sleeping, even though he was their roommate or whatever for the weekend – Evan turns off his music and raises an eyebrow at Puppy. “You really gonna work that hard to get Dex and Nursey together?” 

“Chyea,” Puppy says, or garbles, as he stuffs a bagel in his mouth. “They’d be so cute.”

“How many times have I told you that if you just sit and chill awhile, meditate just a bit, everything you want is gonna come right to you?” Evan demands.

Puppy swallows a mouthful of his bagel. “Um. Maybe twice?”

Evan shows Puppy his phone. “Come look at this, dude. You won’t believe it.”

Puppy gets out of bed and leans over the back of Evan’s desk chair. “Okay, what?”

“Look what Derek Nurse just sent to us,” Evan says in a lowered voice. “It’s too fucking good.”

He logs in to the Wellie twitter and loads up a confession sent from an account clearly belonging to Nursey. It reads: **“CONFESSION: Will Poindexter is an amazing person tbh. Smart, passionate, brave, and hot as fuck.”**

“Oh shit,” Puppy says. “Our plan worked!” 

“Whatever.” Evan takes a screenshot of the message, posts it, and shoves his phone back in his sweatpants pocket. “Woulda happened anyway.”

Puppy squeaks. “Hey, don’t put it away! I wanna see the pics Cams and Lardo are sending of each other!”

“What pics?” Evan sniffs.

“The ones I know you’re not showing me because you’re jealous that I get to be the Ryan of the group and you’re not even in The OC.”

Evan stares. “What in _fuck_. You’re still stuck on that? Bro, that girl told you that you look like him in, like, 2013. Let it go.”

“Pics?”

“Fine.” Evan opens the account again and searches through the inbox. Most of their submissions will never see the light of day, because they get way too many and Evan likes to be a snobby curator. “Do you think we should, like, post one of their pics, though? I mean, I thought we were doing them a solid because they’ve never actually told us they’re together, but maybe they want to, like, tell everyone through Twitter.” 

“That’s not romantic, though,” Puppy complains. “Plus I like when their captions get sassy at us for not posting any of them.”

Evan shows him the three pictures that have rolled in over the last hour. Sometimes Camilla and Lardo get a little carried away, but the photos they share are nice. Most are couple-y shots of the two of them snuggled up, Camilla planting a kiss on Lardo’s cheek, but some are completely non-incriminating when it comes to their secret relationship.

Evan and Puppy totally could post those non-incriminating shots. It’s funnier not to, and to watch the captions get saltier day by day. “My girlfriend’s an artist and she says this pic looks great, so post it or I’ll kill you,” Camilla had written on the most recent submission. So maybe _salty_ wasn’t the right word. More like _concerning_.

Also, Evan had copied all the terrifyingly-captioned submissions onto a ridiculous collage that he could use to embarrass Camilla and Lardo someday. Or that could be used as evidence if he ever went missing. Either way.

“Ooh, speaking of people who are secretly dating,” Puppy whispers, probably in case anyone down the hall is listening, “did you check who sent that syrupshus shot of Ransom? Maybe they’re the mystery date.” 

“The mystery date wouldn’t be creeping on him from the street, dumbass,” Evan says, and he doesn’t bother to correct Puppy’s attempt at ‘surreptitious’. “They’d be mackin’ on him inside.”

“Unless they have a goofy sense of humor,” Puppy says dreamily. “And were just teasing him a little.”

“Right.” Evan clears his throat. “No. Anyway, Ola said he was probs with March, and she never sends us shit. Plus, look.” He found the original submission. “It was sent in with someone with the handle _dj2014_. I looked at their page and it’s, like, totally empty. I’m still saying this is probably a drug dealer who collects photo evidence of the crime to use for extortion or something.”

“I think he’s meeting with a secret lover,” Puppy decides. “Should we spam this DJ person for deets?”

Evan rolls his eyes. “Go eat your bagel and stop exhaling your crumbs on me.”

Puppy cheerfully blows a smattering of bagel crumbs on Evan’s neck, then darts back to his bed. “Everyone’s falling in love. 2015’s gonna be a great year.”

Evan scowls and yanks his headphones back on. “Fuck off, Pups.”

  


**six**

  


Holster doesn’t really like his winter coat. He’d gone Black Friday shopping this year to replace his old one and had decided to try and buy something classy, something he could wear to his real, grown-up job once he graduated. The coat was a charcoal gray wool, long enough to reach halfway down his thighs. He misses his old puffy parka. This doesn’t feel like him; this feels like a boring, thirty-five year old version of him.

Also, he’s kind of freaking out that he might have fucked things up with Ransom _and_ , eventually, with Nursey. So there’s a slight chance he’s focusing on his stupid coat as a way to distract himself. 

Everything had seemed fine with Ransom – things had seemed more than fine, especially with Ransom’s fingers threaded in his hair with the bedroom door shut – but there was still a knot in Holster’s stomach. He knew he could be an asshole, but he hoped that he could at least be a lovable asshole. 

He and Ransom were just now approaching 48 hours of knowing each other. No matter how unbothered Ransom seemed by Holster’s shit, Holster knew it wasn’t a good omen that Ransom had already discovered how unthoughtful he could be. 

Plus, he’d embarrassed Dex and possibly Nursey. That was happening too.

Great. Now he was twice as much of an asshole for caring more about what Ransom thinks than how Dex and Nursey feel.

Then his phone buzzes, and it’s Ransom. _bring me back some pumpkin bread pls??_ with a praying emoji. 

God, his boyfriend is so fucking adorable and perfect. Holster’s going to cry.

And now he’s walking to Jerry’s, because he’s somehow found himself in the frankly bizarre position of having a secret that only John Johnson knows about. And he needs to vent, dammit.

Thanks to the sorta-blizzard that swept through campus overnight, Jerry’s is pretty empty. Just some girls from the science department working on a project together, plus Lardo and Camilla hanging out at a corner booth. 

Holster waves to them, and they take a break from gazing into each other’s eyes to wave back. But he avoids the table next to them and heads straight for the bar and sinks into a stool across from where Johnson is working the cash register. “Slow day?” 

Johnson shrugs. “Pretty much. But somehow almost everyone on the men’s hockey team _and_ lacrosse team have been in here anyway, which is kind of weird.”

“Well, your coffee’s fucking addicting and your food is great. Can I get a hot apple cider and some pumpkin bread when you get a chance?”

“I’ve got a chance now,” Johnson says. “You can be kind of weird sometimes, you know?”

Holster digs for his wallet. “Huh. Okay. Uh, so, you know that guy I told you about?”

Johnson takes Holster’s credit card and runs it. “Duh, bro. The place didn’t magically unlock itself last night, remember?”

“Yeah, thanks again for that, by the way. But I don’t mean to sound thirteen or anything here, but we kinda had a fight today. Or disagreement. I’m lowkey freaking out that I’ve already fucked this up and we’re not even gonna make it to our one week anniversary.”

Johnson just hands him back his card and stares at him. It’s a bit unnerving.

“Help me, Obi John Kenobi,” Holster tries. “Please?” 

“Exactly how serious are your feelings for this dude?” Johnson says abruptly, leaning in.

Holster doesn’t even need to think about it. “The most serious I’ve ever had. More serious than I thought I was capable of having, tbh,” he says, sounding out each letter.

Johnson nods. “And don’t take this the wrong way, but do you think there’s a chance he doesn’t feel the same way about you?”

“He’s—“ And honestly, Holster isn’t used to having a relationship that’s this affectionate, this sweet and important and warm. It’s simultaneously too difficult to believe that Ransom is genuinely in love with him or that Ransom might _not_ be in love with him. “He likes me a lot. I guess he’s a little guarded – just a little bit – but we’ve only been seeing each other for two days, and he really likes me.”

“Then don’t worry about it,” Johnson says. “Like I said, you’ve found yourself in a forbidden romance, and those always have some major bumps along the way. Antagonizing forces and shit. But you need those, because in the end that’s what makes your relationship stronger. You’ll see.”

“Thanks,” Holster says. “That makes me feel… better? Which is weird. But thanks.”

Johnson shrugs. “No problem. He was in here today, you know? I recognized him from last night. Seems like a good guy.”

Holster blushes, which is stupid. “He is. I love him.” Oops, he did _not_ mean to say that. 

“Aw, that’s some cute shit,” Johnson says. “Now go back to that dump the lax team calls a house and spend some time with your man, okay? Bring him a hot chocolate. It’s on me.”

“Dude, you don’t need to do that.” Holster rolls his eyes. “And actually, they don’t call it a house. They call it La Church. Because they play la-crosse, so obviously they’ve got to live in a church. I know, I’m just as disgusted as you are.”

Johnson starts making the hot chocolate, even though Holster didn’t really accept it. “That’s very Christian of them.”

“I know, it’s like they’re actively trying to bring the list of things that annoy me into the triple digits,” Holster says. “And I really meant it when I said you don’t need to give Rans that hot chocolate. I’m already bringing him this pumpkin bread.”

Johnson sets it in front of him anyway. “Nah, you’re definitely still in the rising action here. Take a free gift while you still can, trust me.”

Holster sighs and takes the damn drink. It’s a nice gesture and all, but he’s not sure where Johnson gets off calling _him_ the weird one.

  


**seven**

  


Ransom loves Dex. He really, really does.

But Jesus, if Dex keeps ruining the good vibes that Ransom and Camilla have created in La Church’s kitchen, Ransom is going to hit his favorite redhead over the skull with a rolling pin. 

Camilla, because she gets a little insecure and doesn’t want to be replaced by Bitty, is making sugar cookies while Ransom sits at the kitchen table with his laptop and provides the perfect soundtrack. He’s a Spotify wizard, and Camilla’s a generous baking angel, and Dex is sitting there with invisible stink lines coming off of him, he’s so transparently moody. 

But Camilla is a drama mama at heart, so she’s more than happy to let the good vibes die if that means she gets a chance to hear Dex talk about the person he is _obviously_ getting so bent out of shape over. “Something bugging you, Dexter?” she asks. 

“This day’s just been really stupid,” Dex says. “I feel like I’m high or something.”

“Then what are you doing looking so mad for?” Ransom demands. 

Camilla lays a hand on Ransom’s shoulder, which totally gets cookie dough on his sleeve. “He’s never been high; he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. It’s okay.”

“I just mean that everything’s really fucking weird today!” Dex rubs his hands across his face, pale and bleary-eyed. “Like, I don’t know if you saw that thing on the Wellie twitter,” he says to Camilla, turning just slightly red around the edges, “but I’m starting to think that Nursey posted it? Because he’s acting like… I don’t know. I don’t like it.”

Ransom pauses the YMCA song. The good vibes have officially been killed and it’s time to regroup, even if he does wish Lardo hadn’t disappeared promptly after returning from Jerry’s with Camilla – she would be great for talking Dex down. “What’s he doing?”

Dex turns redder by increments. “Just – talking to me. It’s so dumb. He’s just been acting, like….” He clears his throat and presses his palms against the table. “You saw the post, though?”

“Yeah, babe, I did,” Camilla says. Her back is to Dex, so she quickly makes a slightly silly, slightly nervous face at Ransom before turning back to the oven. “But why do you think he would post _that_? I mean, he’s a good-looking guy, and there are probably a hundred people at Samwell who will gladly tell him that. It doesn’t seem like he needs to make a submission to Wellie just to remind people he’s cute, right?” 

“Yeah, I know,” Dex grumbles, then turns even redder. “But he probably just made it to mess with me. Since it looks like I did it.”

“Does it?” Camilla asks innocently, pulling the first batch of cookies out of the oven. “I thought it was Marty, honestly.”

Dex blanches. “Marty? Does he like Nursey? Are you _serious_?”

Camilla just shrugs, the devil. Feeling like he can’t take this conversation anymore – he’s too stressed about Dex getting mad at them later, about all of this blowing up in their faces – Ransom lowers the volume and then presses play again to distract himself. 

“Do you think Nursey likes _Marty_?” Dex asks, and it’s almost precious how hard he’s clearly trying to sound casual. “That’s weird. I thought Marty was straight.”

“Yeah, I think he is,” Ransom says, before Camilla can take this anywhere further. “Straight, I mean. Marty.”

“As far as I know,” Camilla says. “I just meant I thought Marty did it as a joke. But why do you think Nursey posted it, hon?”

Ransom glares at her, but there’s no heat in it. Really, though, where does she get off calling Dex _hon_ while she’s mercilessly toying with him?

Camilla smiles back and offers Dex a warm sugar cookie. 

“He, uh, I don’t know. Sometimes. Like today. He acts like he likes me.”

Ransom can’t stop himself from leaning forward in excitement. “That’s cool,” he blurts out. Holy shit, is their plan actually _working_?

“No it’s _not_ ,” Dex snaps. “Because he’s just being a dick. Just because he knows I—Nursey knows I don’t like him, so he’s just trying to piss me off.”

“By flirting with you?” Camilla says. “Eat your cookie.”

Dex takes an obedient bite. “Yeah, I guesh,” he manages to get out.

“Just do it right back,” Ransom suggests. “I bet he would have no idea what to do.”

Camilla narrows her eyes at Ransom while Dex turns the brightest red he’s looked in a long time. “Maybe I—okay. I’ll think about it,” Dex chokes out. “Huh.”

“Just an idea,” Ransom shrugs. Now that he’s directing the conversation, he loves this plan again.

“Right. Um, I have this big, um, sociology paper to write, so I think I’ll go do that,” Dex says. “Thanks for the cookie, Camilla?”

“Sure, no problem. Want another one to help you write?” Camilla holds out a second cookie.

Dex takes it and promptly stuffs it in his mouth. “Shanks.”

Ransom smiles down at the table as he listens to Dex walking back upstairs. He turns the volume back up on his laptop, which has now moved on to playing Hips Don’t Lie. Once he knows that Dex is buried in his bedroom again, Ransom finally looks up at Camilla.

“You’re terrible,” she says, smiling.

“ _You’re_ terrible. What the fuck was that about Marty?”

“Just laying some groundwork,” she says vaguely. “I swear to God, if I get to witness Dex attempting to flirt with Derek Nurse because of this, I’m going to marry you.” 

“Cool,” Ransom says. “Double wedding with Dex and Nursey.” And he grabs a cookie.

  


**eight**

  


She’d be roasted within an inch of her life if she ever let the rest of the lacrosse team know, but Ola has to go to bed by 9:30 if she wants to be functional the next day. 

It’s 9:40.

“Chad,” she mumbles, crawling onto his bed and laying her head on his chest even though he is not a huge cuddler, “I’m sleeping here. No snow. No walking.” 

“I don’t wanna sleep on the floor,” Chad says. He doesn’t really find her early bedtimes cute anymore. Unfortunately.

“Share,” Ola whispers, voice croaky.

Chad wiggles out from under her. “Ugh, then the bed will get all sweaty. Fine.”

Ola wants to remind him that he doesn’t mind the bed getting all sweaty when they sleep together in a different way, but she’s too tired to put that much effort into pronouncing words. Hell, she might not even brush her teeth tonight. Now that she’s comfy, she doesn’t want to move. “Makeup?” she manages to communicate.

“You’re the worst,” Chad grumbles, but he disappears into the bathroom and comes back a moment later with a makeup wipe. At first Ola lets him try to rub off her makeup, but it feels weird to let someone else do it, so she grabs the wipe and pushes it across her skin, her movements sloppy.

“Thanks, babe,” Ola says, depositing the used wipe back in Chad’s hand.

“Yeah, I bet.”

She knows Chad isn’t going to turn the lights off for a while, since he’s set aside the next couple hours to research his huge theology paper, so she shuts her eyes and rolls over, facing away from the light. “Night.”

Chad nudges her foot under the sheets. He’s annoying like that and always tries to talk to her when she’s falling asleep. “You see that Camilla’s just, like, moving in? Is that permanent?”

“Dumb,” Ola says into the pillowcase. “Just with Ransom for a little. No.” 

“It better be just for a little bit. Hey, but she told me that Dex and Nursey have increased their flirting exponentially throughout the day. Nice, right?”

Damn him and the way he loves gossip just as much as she does. Ola rolls over and can feel a temporary rush of alertness zinging through her brain as she processes the news. “Valentine’s Day is totally happening. It’s gonna work.”

“Fuck yeah, it is. Their love will be a covenant of friendship and fidelity between our teams. The Dean’s gonna bust a nut.”

“Oh my god,” Ola says. “Is this like a political marriage to you?” 

“Kinda.” Chad kisses her temple, which she doesn’t comment on. “I’ve never felt so powerful. We should start a legit matchmaking business.”

“Let’s save that for when we have more than one success story. Or, really, _one_ success story. Rumors that they’re flirting don’t count as a victory yet.”

Chad rolls his eyes. “Relax, dude. Not counting our chickens before they’ve fucked.”

“Okay, so that’s completely disgusting.”

“But, like, speaking of dumb single people who need our help to get a date,” Chad continues, “have you made any real progress on Ransom and March?” 

Ola, who’d just begun to feel sleepy again, jolts back to action. “Holy shit, I forgot about that! Hand me my phone, angel. I’ve got this.”

Chad raises an eyebrow but does as he’s told.

As Ola hashes out a text, Chad continues his research in silence; a couple minutes later, Ola sighs contentedly and drops her phone on his chest. “Boom. Ransom and March are going on a date this week.”

“Yeah?” Chad smiles. “Does Ransom know this?”

“Hell no. But I told March that Ransom’s been talking about how much he likes her, and that he likes girls who initiate. She’s already asking for date ideas, so I’d say it’s in the bag.”

Chad squeals, because they’re alone and she’s too tired to make fun of him, and envelops her in an awkward hug, uncomfortable because they’re lying in bed next to each other and it’s hard for him to really get his arms around her. “What did you tell her to do?”

“I said bitch, I’m sleeping and you can talk to me tomorrow.” Ola laughs. “Or, I told her I would think about it and get back to her. Same thing.”

“Tell her to do something active. Like rock-climbing or something. He’d like that.”

Ola turns and glares at Chad. “That’s enough. I’m passing out now.”

“Aye, aye, captain,” Chad mutters. He clicks to the sixth page of his fucking JSTOR search and smiles when he hears her breathing even out.

  


**nine**

  


In his desperation to avoid one of Shitty’s gender lectures, Conrad had invited himself into Puppy and Evan’s room for the past hour and a half, and had proceeded to drive them both crazy by loading up Netflix on their flat screen and switching to a different movie every ten minutes.

“There’s just no good shit on here,” he finally says, tossing the remote aside and standing up. “Peace out, bitches.”

“Oh no, you’re leaving?” Puppy asks innocently. Evan and Conrad are probably the only two people in the world who’d be able to see right through his widened eyes and know that Puppy’s just taking the piss – Evan because they’re practically inseparable, Conrad because he’s such a douche himself that he can always sniff it out in other people.

“Fuck you, Puppy,” Conrad says lightly, and shuts the door behind him.

Evan grabs the remote and turns off the TV. “Thank god,” he mutters. “Why does he always come to _our_ room?” 

“Idk,” Puppy spells out. “But you should text Shitty and tell him that Conrad used the word _bitches_ as a demeaning insult. Please.”

Evan snorts. “Nah; if I do it, he’ll know I’m just trying to fuck with C. You gotta do it, he’d never suspect you.” 

Puppy shrugs. “Sure.” A minute later, once he’s sent his tattletaling message and received a response, he smirks up at Evan. “He’s going to confront Conrad about it since I’m not _assertive_ enough to do it myself.” 

Then Evan’s phone vibrates. “Shit, if that’s Conrad, lock the door.” Once he checks his phone, though, his face lights up. “Well, I’ll be fucked. Look what just popped up in Wellie’s inbox.” 

Puppy practically falls over in his rush to see. “Oh fuck, is that from the same person who sent a pic of Ransom earlier?”

Evan checks. “Huh. Yeah. That DJ guy.”

“Or girl, hello, it’s 2015,” Puppy says. “Whoever they are, I’m supes glad they’re stalking Ransom. This is a date, right?”

In the picture, Ransom is wearing his white ballcap and a burnt-orange sweater, so it must have been taken today. He’s at a small booth in Jerry’s, sitting across from a fresh-looking guy in a pale blue button-up and, like, weirdly sexy gold-framed glasses. It does look like a date, in Evan’s professional opinion. 

“Did they include a caption or do we have to make one?” Puppy asks, poking Evan’s knee. “I want it to say, like, ‘10 out of 10 finds another 10 out of 10, onlookers cry.’”

“There’s no caption,” Evan says. He turns his phone facedown. “Not sure we should post that right now, though.”

Puppy stares at him. “What? Why? He’s out.”

“Yeah, to the team. But, idk, maybe not to everyone. He’s only been here, like, a month.”

“Oh, shit, yeah.” Puppy hops up on the bed next to Evan so they can think together. “What do you want to do?”

Evan’s not sure where to begin answering that question. “Well, I want to post this picture, obviously, because it’s a great submission, but I also want to ask Ransom if it’s okay.”

“You want to tell him we’re Wellie?” Puppy asks, eyes huge. He obviously _doesn’t_ want to own up to that just yet.

And Evan doesn’t really want to let that get around, either. “Nah. But I dunno how we can casually ask Ransom if Wellie can post a pic of his, like, romantic mastication and still keep it a secret, you know?”

Puppy’s mouth drops open. “ _What?_ Are you kidding?”

“...No?”

“Holy shit, I didn’t see that. Fuck, we can’t post _that_ , Evan!” Puppy sticks out his tongue in disgust. “I mean, I love Ransom and all, but does he need a counselor or something?”

Evan is completely lost. But he’s been Puppy’s best bro long enough that he assumes Puppy got confused somewhere along the way. “Why do you think he needs a counselor, Pup?”

“For….” Puppy makes a face at him that clearly says _duh, you know_ , and stares downward as if that means something.

“Dude, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Puppy seems like he’s ready to throw up his hands and walk away. “Evan! There’s no way you think it’s okay for Ransom to be masticating in fucking _Jerry’s_!”

It takes Evan a solid ten seconds to stop laughing. “Mastication and masturbation are different things, bro.”

“I know that!” Puppy cries, now blushing darker.

“Mastication means eating,” Evan adds. “Sorry, bro, this guy I knew in high school was this super pretentious dickwad and he always called dates ‘romantic mastication,’ and it’s so fucking dumb that a bunch of us started doing it too.” He giggles again. “Jesus Christ, I can’t believe you thought Ransom was whacking one off in the middle of Jerry’s.”

Puppy folds his arms and pouts just a bit. “Whatever. I thought masturbation was when you’re alone and mastication was when you do it in public. I swear I heard that once.”

Evan pats him gently on the arm. “It’s cool, you don’t have to know every word. But what do you think we should do about Ransom, though? For real?”

“Why are you asking me? I’m dumb.”

Evan rolls his eyes and gives Puppy a super obnoxious hug, ending with a sloppy wet kiss on the forehead. “What should we do, you baby Einstein?”

“Ew, stop,” Puppy grumbles happily. “Can’t we just say that Wellie sent us the picture and wanted us to double-check that Ransom was okay with it before posting? Since they know we’re teammates and all. Let’s just do it at breakfast tomorrow.”

“Puppy, you’re a fucking genius,” Evan says.

Nothing can match Puppy’s shit-eating grin. “That’s what I’ve been saying.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And on your left you'll see the plots of Romeo + Juliet and Much Ado about Nothing combining in strange, convoluted ways. LMS if you, like me, are on the verge of literally passing out but you love Holsom enough to get thru this long-ass fic


	4. Act Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg. so many things.
> 
> 1\. this is the chapter that puts in some work to earn that 'mature' rating. it's not necessarily SEXY (lol i couldn't write a real sex scene. just can't.) it's mostly just language, which is why I changed it from its old rating (explicit) to mature. idk bro
> 
> 2\. because the source material (aka shakespeare) has faked death, and i obviously am not going to have ransom literally fake his own death, i kinda had to go a different direction with that?? and it may not be ENTIRELY realistic, but we're all trying our best in this life
> 
> 3\. for those of you keeping track at home, ransom and holster are pulling double-duty here -- ransom is juliet/hero; holster is romeo/claudio. ok off we go!

**one**

  


Ransom is pressing his cheek against the cold glass of his bedroom window, something that’s always calmed and comforted him, when his phone vibrates in his pocket. He wonders if it’s Bitty telling him when he’s coming down from visiting Jack in the attic, but it’s not Bitty. 

It’s not anyone he could have expected, actually. It’s March Rosengart. 

  


**March R** 10:20 PM  
Hey Justin! I’m going to be heading into the city on Thursday and was wondering if you wanted to come along. You mentioned that you haven’t really explored Boston much yet, and I’d love to show you around.

  


Ransom exhales heavily. His breath forms a circle of condensation on the window, which he absentmindedly traces with his nose as he thinks about what to say. 

It’s hard, because he did drop some pretty strong hints back when he first met March, hints that implied he’d be interested in going on a date sometime. But he obviously can’t do that now. He’s starting something new with Holster, and even if he went to Boston with March as just a friend, it would give the wrong impression.

  


  
**Ransom** 10:23 PM  
hey march! think i’ll need a raincheck on that. lots of stuff going right now  & i don’t have tons of time to be social :/

**Ransom** 10:23 PM  
thanks for thinking of me tho  


  


He’d rather err on the side of being too rude than too nice, because he doesn’t want March to get the wrong idea and keep asking him out. But it’s hard to really tell how he’s coming off over text, especially when he doesn’t know her well.

His phone vibrates again in his hand.

  


**Ola** 10:28 PM  
Ransom, why am I getting woken up by March sad-texting me? I thought you liked her. I told her you were interestd. Now I feel bad.

 **Ola** 10:28 PM  
**interested

  


Ransom double-checks the time on his phone. It’s only 10:28. Ola’s sleep schedule is weird. Like, old lady weird.

  


  
**Ransom** 10:28 PM  
ehh i guess im just not feeling it.  


**Ola** 10:29 PM  
How were you feeling it 2 days ago but you’re not feeling it now? I’m sending Chad over there if you don’t change your mind. Not fair to March.

 **#1 Chad** 10:29 PM  
Dude just say yes I’m comfy and I don’t wanna get up 

  


This is one of those moments where Ransom really wishes his door had a lock. He doesn’t know what to say to Chad, and he only has a minute or two before his captain chases him down. Maybe he could hide in the closet? Chad wouldn’t look there. Probably.

  


**#1 Chad** 10:30 PM  
I hate you

  


Ransom hears Chad stomping down the hall and tries to come up with a plausible reason for why he’d suddenly lose interest in March. Something that doesn’t include Holster, or secret relationships of any kind. 

“Bro, what are you doing?” Chad demands from the doorway. And Ransom is shit out of luck, because he still can’t think of a good excuse. “Ola got this all set up for you and now you’re changing your mind?”

Ransom shrugs.

“What’s the problem? Is it March, or is that you don’t like hooking up with someone you’ve been set up with?” Chad sounds angrier than the situation really warrants, but that’s probably because he was forced to get up for this conversation.

“I just don’t think I like her,” Ransom snaps. He usually doesn’t convert his stress into anger, but he kind of needs something to distract Chad from how nonsensical he’s being. “I just said yes the first time to be nice.”

“How’s it fucking nice to say you’re interested and then change your mind five seconds later?” Chad demands. “And, like, whatever, I don’t know March and I don’t really care, but just go on one date so that Ola won’t feel like shit for setting this whole thing up. Maybe you’ll like March, maybe you won’t, but you’re going on _one_ date, and that’s not optional.”

Ransom grinds his teeth. “I said no. It happens. March will get over it, because she’s an adult, and that’s what adults do.”

“The fuck are you trying to say?” Chad says, and great, now he thinks Ransom was directly insulting Ola. 

“I’m not trying to say anything,” he mutters. “Tell Ola I’m sorry things got weird, but March will be fine and Ola didn’t do anything wrong. It’s all good.”

Chad glares at him for a few seconds, but just shakes his head and turns back to the door. “It’s one date. You don’t need to be such a fucking drama queen about it.”

 _I could say the same thing to you_ , Ransom thinks, but he lets it pass. He’s already got a cold, sick feeling in his stomach at how this situation’s playing out, and there’s no need to make it worse. 

After Chad’s long gone and Ransom’s rubbed both cheeks _and_ his forehead against the window until his heartbeat feels normal, his phone vibrates again. He’s almost too scared to look, but now it really is Bitty.

  


**Eric Bittle** 10:37 PM  
Just letting you know Camilla and I are gonna sleep up here tonight! If you want to join in and make it a real sleepover you can, but otherwise see you in the morning! 

  


Ransom types back a quick _ok_. He hadn’t even known that Camilla was spending the night – that was weird. Why would she want to hang out with Bitty, Jack, Marty, and Lardo when she could hang out with _him?_ They were supposed to be bros.

And maybe, now that he has the room to himself, it would be the normal thing to do to text Holster and invite him over for some quality time, but Ransom just wants to sleep. If that’s even possible. 

He knows he’s overreacting, that the argument with Chad and Ola will feel better in the morning, but right now he feels like he has no reason to be here – in La Church, on the team, at Samwell. 

No reason except Holster, which he suspects would be a pretty pathetic reason from an outside perspective, since they’ve only known each other for two days.

Ransom blasts “Tomorrow” from _Annie_ , because he’s secretly a huge loser, and waits for his mind to stop racing so he can fall asleep.

  


**two**

  


Admittedly, being forced into team-bonding time with the lax bros has been way better than Holster anticipated. For one, he got to meet Ransom. For another – well, okay, meeting Ransom has been the only legitimately good thing, but it’s enough to make up for everything else. 

Like, for instance, the fact that the walls are thin and he had to listen to Dex complain to Chowder for forty minutes about how vain and conceited Nursey is. 

And Holster’s pretty sure that being forced to room with Puppy and Evan could be classified as a form of torture if the FBI ever got wind of the situation. They have fucking bets set up about _everything_ , and by everything Holster means every potential relationship that could ever happen. He’s barely spent any time in their room without his earphones pointedly blasting music as a warning to leave him alone, yet they’ve still tried to rope him into joining their pools on this season of The Bachelor – Puppy wants Britt to win, Evan wants Jade to win, and Holster claims to not give a shit but actually wants Whitney to win – and to bet on potential relationships between Dex and Nursey, Ransom and March, and Conrad and some girl named Megan. 

Holster knows he’s not exactly a paragon of moral virtue, considering the whole manipulating-Nursey-and-Dex-into-a-relationship thing, but he’s not low enough to start taking _bets_ on the private lives of the people around him, thank you very much.

So he waits for Evan and Puppy to shut up, and tries to look irritated and unapproachable, and waits for Evan and Puppy to fall asleep, and finally, at 1:30 AM, he breathes a sigh of relief when they’re both snoring gently.

Then he can’t sleep, because, gentle as their snores may be, he’s in an unfamiliar room and there are two snoring dudes. So he texts Ransom.

  


  
**Holster** 1:33 AM  
So any chance that you’re awake. And that I could sleep on your floor or something.

**Holster** 1:34 AM  
I’m sorry but these assholes snore and you know I love your pals but I could also smother them with a pillow if this problem isn’t rectified  


**Ransom** 1:34 AM  
you woke me up for this

 **Ransom** 1:34 AM  
i was sleep

  
**Holster** 1:34 AM  
Please darling :( :(

**Holster** 1:35 AM  
Well as long as Bitty doesn’t snore. I don’t think he does. Does he?

**Holster** 1:35 AM  
Do you?  


**Ransom** 1:37 AM  
bitty’s in the attic…. winky face

  


Holster’s creaking the door to Ransom’s room open in nine seconds flat. “Baby, are you so tired you can’t navigate to the emojis?” he whispers into the darkness.

“Maybe.” There’s a click, and then the momentarily blinding flash of Ransom’s bedside lamp turning on. Ransom looks so damn cute and rumpled and _cranky_ , curled up in his bed and wearing a wrinkled green t-shirt. 

As Holster tiptoes toward the bed, Ransom puts on a pair of black-rimmed glasses. Holster kind of almost falls over on the spot, but that might just be because he’s really tired and there’s dirty laundry on the floor. 

“Miss me?” Ransom croaks. He still looks grumpy, and Holster wants to smooth out the lines of his t-shirt and just. Feel his warm skin. A lot.

“Hard to sleep,” Holster reminds him instead. “Snoring.”

“Well, I don’t snore,” Ransom says, regarding him carefully. “But I can still make it hard for you to sleep. If you want.”

Holster plops down on the bed across from Ransom and picks up Ransom’s hands in his. “That was a terrible line. But it’s one-thirty in the morning, so I’ll let it slide.”

“I’ll let _you_ slide,” Ransom mutters, which might be sexual or might be nonsense. Holster can’t tell. “I can’t believe you woke me up over this. Not thoughtful, bro.”

“Yeah,” Holster says, and he can’t help but smile over this. “Plus, I snore too. So.”

“Fuck you,” Ransom grumbles, and lightly pulls on Holster’s wrists so that Holster tumbles forward across Ransom’s lap. 

Holster lets his face press into Ransom’s chest, inhaling the smell of Ransom’s pajamas, Ransom’s sheets, and Ransom’s body. “Sure. All you had to do was ask.”

“ _That_ was a terrible line,” Ransom says mildly, but he shifts one leg over so he can hook it around Holster’s body, then lifts Holster’s face, fingers fanning over Holster’s jaw, and they’re kissing in a way that feels like it’s the only thing that should ever happen.

When Ransom is whining and grabbing Holster’s hands to press them against his body, and when Holster is struggling for air just because he’s lost in the _sounds_ Ransom is making, in the rapid rise and fall of Ransom’s chest under his hands, it becomes clear that they have some logistics to work out.

“When you said ‘fuck you’ did you mean that in a literal sense?” Holster manages. “Because I could do either way. Or something else. But I don’t want to come in my pants because they’re kind of nice flannel, you know?”

Ransom nods and begins sucking on Holster’s fingers, which is fucking unfair; Holster gasps for air and snatches his hand away before he can ruin his pajamas for real, because he’s actually embarrassingly close already. “No, I want _you_ ,” Ransom breathes.

Oh, fuck. Holster clenches his jaw and tries to stay focused. “Would it be really bad if I wanted to hear you say _I want you inside of me_ like we’re in a porno or something? Because… yeah.”

“Or like Ghostbusters,” Ransom says. “I’m not saying that, though. But… yeah.”

Holster stares at him. “That is so dope. Fuck. But are you worried people will hear? There’s lax bros everywhere and the walls aren’t exactly soundproof.” 

“There’s hockey bros, too,” Ransom says automatically, stroking his fingers low on Holster’s stomach. “Are you saying you’re loud? Because that doesn’t surprise me.” He grins up at Holster, who can already see his ruin approaching but has no way of stopping it. “Big boy.”

Holster clenches his teeth and widens his eyes at Ransom, shaking his head frantically.

“Your hands are so big,” Ransom says in this sing-song voice that _should_ be annoying but is actually really, really turning Holster on? “Every time I look at them I just think about how much I want you to hold me down.” Ransom presses the palm of his hand against the front of Holster’s pajama pants, then beams in the most wonderfully self-satisfied way.

Holster hooks his fingers into Ransom’s t-shirt and stares down at him like he’s seeing the most beautiful sight of his life – which, to be fair, he is. “Nnnf.”

Ransom grins up at him, cheeky bastard, and everything about him, from the laughter sparkling in his eyes to the way he’s seductively biting his lip (what an asshole) to the poorly-disguised arousal that Holster can see in Ransom’s dilated pupils, flared nostrils, sheen of sweat over his forehead – it’s all too much.

Ransom licks his lips, _god_. “Want you to put your big cock inside of me, feel how big you are—“

Holster groans loudly and ruins his flannel pajama pants. 

“Oh, fuck, you’re—you’re such a dumbass, I love you,” Ransom giggles, petting Holster’s hair as Holster groans again, this time in well-deserved shame, and buries his face in Ransom’s shoulder.

When Holster finally emerges from hiding, Ransom is grinning at him. “You have, like, a complex about your size. That’s interesting.”

“You’re a _dick_ ,” Holster complains, “and I’m not helping you out at all. I’m boycotting your entire pelvic region.”

“Sore loser,” Ransom says. “Until when?”

“Until this embarrassment fades into a vaguely unpleasant memory. You are a fucking menace. God.”

Ransom wiggles out from under Holster and nudges his arm. “Hey, it’s all good. How can you be embarrassed right now? I’m the one who has a fucking zoo of stuffed animals on my bed.”

“I feel like you should have blindfolded them. Now I’m embarrassed to look at them, too.”

“Aw, Holster.”

Holster grabs a huge, furry panda and examines its face. “Okay, this one’s cute. What’s his name?”

“That’s Chukwuma. He’s really feisty, though, so watch out.”

“Justin Oluransi, have you given your stuffed animals personalities? Are you actually doing this?” Holster demands, waving Chukwuma in Ransom’s face. 

Ransom shrugs, a little self-conscious, and bats the panda away. “Shut up, I was their vet every day after school for, like, three years. I know their life stories and complete medical histories.”

Holster picks up a black teddy bear. “What’s his name, then?”

“ _Her_ name is Orisa, and put her down. She gets vertigo.”

“Of course she does. Okay, if I go through all – God, is that seven? – all seven of these animals one by one, are you gonna tell me every single one’s name, occupation, and Myers Briggs type?”

“Duh.”

Holster laughs and rolls back on top of Ransom, kissing his forehead. “Well, I’m way less embarrassed now. You’re a humongous loser and I love you.” He pauses. “Shit. I’m getting you wet, aren’t I? My pants?”

“Nah, it’s fine,” Ransom says, trailing his hands over Holster’s stomach. “Doesn’t bother me.”

“Good, ‘cause it’s your fault anyway,” Holster says. 

Ransom snuggles closer and kisses Holster’s shoulder. “Is the boycott over now?”

“No. And I’m gonna go change into a new pair of pajamas, but I’ll be right back.”

“And then will the boycott be over?”

“ _No,_ ” Holster says, squeezing Ransom’s knee before getting to his feet. “You’re not getting _any_ from me tonight. You have been very, very bad.”

Ransom laughs and watches Holster pick his way through the minefield of dirty laundry and scattered shoes. “I don’t like being told I’m bad. But I’m a big fan of being told I’m good.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Big fan.”

Holster grins. “Good to know.”

“So when you get back—“

“We’ll see.”

  


**three**

  


_February 9, 2015_

There’s nothing special about hating Mondays, but Ransom really hates Mondays. Whatever stress that week holds suddenly feels so much closer, roaring at him like a speeding monster truck now that the buffer of the weekend is gone.

And, funnily enough, this is a Monday that he’d actually looked forward to last week. He was still not entirely comfortable cohabitating with the other lacrosse guys, and he’d been dreading sharing the space with a hockey team full of guys who had, apparently, hated his team’s guts until fairly recently.

But it had been good. Ransom had woken up this morning with Holster pressed up against him, drooling on Ransom’s shoulder in his sleep. 

And now it was ending. 

There was one nice thing to look forward to that morning, though – Camilla and Bitty are teaming up to cook up a big, gorgeous breakfast for both teams, and as Ransom pulls on his favorite dark-wash jeans and a pale rose sweater, he can smell bacon, eggs, and what might be pancakes.

When Ransom finally squeezes into the crowded kitchen – he likes to take his time in the mornings, sue him – he’s disappointed to see that there’s no room to sit by Holster, but he smiles as he finds a chair next to Marty. “Aw, were you guys waiting for me?”

“You, plus Evan and Nursey,” Marty says. “But you can’t rush perfection, right?”

Ransom isn’t sure if Marty’s referring to the missing players or the food being served, so he doesn’t comment. “Nice. Thanks for waiting.”

“Evan should be here soon; he’s just picking a hat,” Puppy volunteers. “Chad, Ola, did you see if Nursey was close to ready when you left?”

“He’s moisturizing,” Ola says.

Ransom hears Dex make a muffled noise from where he sits on Ransom’s left. For once, he doesn’t sound annoyed where Nursey is concerned – maybe _pained_ would describe it better.

“Like I said, can’t rush perfection,” Marty says amiably.

By the time Evan and Nursey show up – colliding with each other on the stairs and almost falling – Ransom’s stomach is growling. He watches excitedly as Bitty serves up the eggs and bacon while Camilla flips the last pancake. “Do me first,” he can’t help but beg. “I’m, like, dying of hunger and it’s really bad.”

“I should make you wait last for that,” Bitty says, but he still serves Ransom up first anyway, then moves on to Marty and continues serving the group in a counterclockwise order. “Don’t forget to say grace,” he jokes as the two teams scarf the food down without even leaving space to breathe.

Ransom moans as he swallows a mouthful of bacon, partially because he thinks it might make Holster’s breakfast a little more interesting, and doesn’t even notice Puppy and Evan approaching him until they’re both leaning over into his personal space, Puppy over his left shoulder and Evan over his right. “Um, ‘sup?”

“We got a DM,” Evan says. “From Wellie, because we’re awesome like that.”

“Yeah, I was so excited I almost peed,” Puppy says. “They’re not looking for interns, though, so it’s not actually that cool.”

Ransom feels like he might know where this is going. He twists his napkin around his fingers and tries not to look like he’s nauseous. “Yeah? What’d they want?”

“Probably a cease and desist on all those dick pics you’re sending in,” Nursey chirps through a mouthful of scrambled eggs, causing Jack to spray his apple juice in laughter.

Evan doesn’t look Nursey’s way, but throws up a bored-looking middle finger. “They wanted us to ask you if they can post this. Since it’s not really clear if you’re out to the whole school or just certain people, I guess.”

“Um, maybe not,” Ransom mutters. He doesn’t want to see the picture. He doesn’t know if it’s with Holster, and he doesn’t want to see it.

Marty, apparently, _does_ want to see it. He leans over and practically squeals, smacking Ransom’s arm. “Dude! Did you go on a date and not tell us about it!”

Ransom can’t help but look across the table at Holster, who’s slowly but surely turning red. “No?” He finally looks down at the picture. “No, it wasn’t—“

“Looks like a date. Aw, you look so shy! And he’s cute. Is he treating you right?” Marty grins, and within four seconds Evan’s phone is being passed around the table.

“Um, yeah, this is totally a date,” Lardo says. “And this guy’s a fox, dude, nice job.”

“Oh shit,” Camilla breathes, peering over Lardo’s shoulder. “Look at those gently tousled waves. He’s so cute, Rans. Where’d you get him?”

Ransom can’t answer. He’s too busy multitasking: focusing on his breathing while forgetting how to breathe entirely; looking anywhere but at Holster while being hyper-aware of the way Holster is staring down at his plate with a sick look on his face, using his fork to push cut-up pieces of pancake around in circles.

“Oh, you fucker,” Chad says. “This is the outfit you wore yesterday. You had a date and didn’t even tell us? Shit, now I feel bad the whole, uh, March thing.”

“Oh shit,” Ola says. “Sorry, Rans. I had no idea.”

“Because you didn’t _say_ anything,” Chad grumbles under his breath.

Ransom watches as the phone makes its way to where Holster is sitting, and watches as Holster looks down for just a brief moment before shoving the phone at Shitty. When Holster lurches to his feet, the harsh sound of his chair scraping over the kitchen floor sends a shiver directly over Ransom’s heart. “Gotta—forgot something,” Holster manages to get out, and then he’s gone. 

Ransom stares straight ahead and tries to look normal, but he feels like his skin isn’t even attached to him anymore, which is never a good sign for his brain, and he can start to feel his heart racing in a way that’s not exactly new, but still scares the shit out of him. 

He can feel Marty elbowing him, laughing and saying something no longer distinguishable, and Ransom shrinks away until he ends up hiding his face behind Dex’s shoulder, gripping both hands around Dex’s wrist as tightly as he can.

While a tiny, ever-alert corner of his mind stresses about how humiliating this is, Ransom has to focus almost all of his mental energy on controlling his lungs again, on sharp inhales and shaky exhales that slowly, slowly bring his heart rate back down. 

He feels exhausted by the time he’s ready to peel himself off of Dex’s side, resigned to the complete and total humiliation of having a panic attack in front of fourteen people who might have never seen one before, but when Ransom looks up the only other people left in the kitchen are Camilla, Chad, Ola, and Dex. “Where’d everyone go?” he mumbles. His voice sounds faint, younger than usual, even to his own ears.

“Got rid of them,” Chad says.

Camilla looks like she’s dying to give Ransom a hug, and he’s glad that she’s holding herself back. He’d probably flinch if she touched him right now, and that would add another tiny sprinkle of embarrassment to the heaping pile he’s already made for himself. “Do you want a glass of water or anything, babe?” she says instead.

“I’m good,” Ransom says. Like that’s not an obvious lie.

“Ransom, what happened?” Ola asks. 

He’s always liked her, liked how she gets straight to the point and doesn’t tiptoe around shit, and he likes it even more now. The truth comes pouring out of him: how he and Holster had this _connection_ , how they’ve been exploring a possible relationship, how they’ve been nervous about telling anyone. 

And Ransom has to tell them who he _wasn’t_ on a date with yesterday, too. 

“He’s from Princeton,” Ransom says, honest and emptied out. “I tried to transfer there from Minnesota first, but they didn’t give me any scholarships, which is why I’m here in the first place. But a couple weeks before I officially transferred here, they told me there was a mix-up with my application, they reviewed it, and I’ve actually got this big-ass scholarship waiting for me if I want to go there. I was just trying to decide.”

“Decide if you’re transferring again?” Dex asks. He’s been cautious, too careful to move even an inch from where Ransom still has their shoulders pressed together. 

“Yeah,” Ransom says. He knows there are tears in his eyes, and he’s glad everyone’s pointedly pretending not to notice. 

He fucking hates this. It’s too much stress, knowing he’s running out of time to make a decision and constantly vacillating between his two options. Princeton’s a better school, of course it is, but even with the big-ass scholarship it’s still way more expensive, and it’s all compounded by the fact that he’s scared he’ll never feel quite at home, or happy, at Samwell, but even that might be bullshit because he’s just too distracted by Princeton to really commit to making friends.

And now Holster’s part of the equation. And Ransom can’t believe how stupid he feels for factoring that in, for adding a guy he’s only known since Friday night to the scales on such a life-changing decision, but it’s _happening_ and he can’t stop himself.

“I wish you’d told me,” Camilla says. She looks like she’s going to cry, and this is another reason Ransom couldn’t think about this without feeling nauseous – if he transfers again, after just one month, he’ll hurt people. They’ll think it’s because of them, and that he doesn’t like them, and he doesn’t want that to be his _fault_ – 

“Woah, buddy, let’s breathe some more,” Chad says nervously. “Um, breathe in, one-two-three, breathe out, one-two-three.”

Ransom cracks a smile. “Thanks.”

“Hey,” Dex says, turning to look at Ransom for the first time since this all started, “it’s really cool that you got into Princeton. And _really_ fucking cool that they’re giving you a scholarship.”

“Yeah,” Ransom mumbles, because he knows it is, but it’s hard to really feel that way when every time he thinks about making a choice he feels like crying. “Thank you.”

“How does this sound?” Ola says, folding her hands on the table. “If you need some alone time to think, we’ll make sure no one goes in your room when you’re in there. And we can help you narrow down the pros and cons, if you want.”

“We’ll make an Xcel thing,” Chad tries. “You love those, right? Dude, I’m surprised you haven’t done that yet.”

Ransom has already made about twenty different Xcel spreadsheets related to this decision, but he appreciates the gesture. And maybe opening up the conversation to more people will help. “That’s a good idea. I’d like that.” 

“And do you want us to say anything to Holster for you?” Camilla asks, eyes big and concerned.

Ransom’s stomach hurts when he thinks about that. He doesn’t know which is worse – Holster feeling hurt because he thinks Ransom went on a different date yesterday, or Holster feeling hurt because Ransom might be leaving the state forever and never even mentioned it. “No,” he says. “I don’t know what I’d want you to say. I mean, I’ll tell him, but I should wait until I know what the decision even is that I’m telling him about. I don’t know.”

“When will you _know_ your decision?” Ola asks. “You have a deadline with Princeton, right?”

Ransom looks down at the table. “Friday.”

“Okay,” Chad says. “Friday. We’ll hold down the fort till then.”

“Go take a nap,” Dex adds. “You need one, and you kind of deserve it.”

Ransom can’t hold back the tears anymore, which is embarrassing, but he gets up and tries to laugh them off. “I’ll do that. Thanks. You guys have been super great and understanding, and I don’t deserve it at all, so thank you.”

“You deserve everything,” Camilla says fiercely. “Go get some beauty sleep, and then we’ll help you decide, okay? We just want you to be happy.”

Ransom forces a watery smile. “I’m happy here, I swear. It’s just… Princeton. I dunno.” 

“You don’t have to know right now,” Chad says, “because it’s not Friday yet. Now go back to bed. I’m checking on you in ten minutes, and you’d better be sleeping.”

Ransom has to obey his captain, and this shit-show of a morning has him completely drained, so when Chad does check on him ten minutes later, Ransom’s fast asleep.

  


**four**

  


After Ransom left to get some rest, Dex had stayed in the kitchen for just a few minutes; he’d felt distinctly uncomfortable navigating between Camilla’s tears and Chad and Ola’s dedication to solving every problem.

He’d immediately checked Puppy and Evan’s room to see if Holster had retreated there, not sure what to say but knowing he had to say _something_ , and had been disappointed and relieved to see that the room was empty.

Chad’s room was empty too when he checked for Nursey. 

And now he’s already done with his first class of the day, and Dex still hasn’t had a chance to talk this through with someone. That might be enough to explain why, when he sees Nursey in line at the Samwell-run coffee shop, Dex budges in front of him instead of walking the other direction.

“Oh, thank God,” Nursey says. “Come on, let’s go sit down.” He heads toward the small, circular tables next to the coffee shop.

Dex follows. “Aren’t you getting coffee?”

“Nah, their stuff is shit. I was, uh, waiting for you? I wanted to ask about what happened this morning. Thought I’d get something terrible to drink while I waited, but luckily you got here before I could go through with it.”

Dex has never had the campus coffee, as it’s about four dollars for a small, so he ignores that. “Why were you waiting for _me_?” he asks, and is slightly unnerved to realize that his voice sounds more hopeful than annoyed. “You could ask Chad. You’re his roommate.”

“I’m no such thing,” Nursey says in that careless, snotty way he has. “All of us moved back into the Haus now that the weekend’s over, remember? But, like, even though I don’t know Ransom very well, what happened at breakfast was way uncool and I want to know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

Nursey delivers this last part of his speech like he’s already resigned to Dex yelling at him and doubting his intentions. Which is stupid – Dex thinks Nursey is infuriating and self-involved and smug, but he’s never once believed that Nursey is unkind.

“I don’t know what you can do,” Dex says now. “I don’t know what _anyone_ can do to make it better.” Making sure that nobody is close enough to overhear them, Dex gives a halting summary of the situation: the secret dating, the secret Princeton acceptance, the uncertainty that’s eating Ransom alive.

“Okay, so here’s what I think we should do,” Nursey says, and while his green eyes are soft with concern, there’s that familiar nonchalance in the way he carries the conversation forward. For once, Dex finds it endearing rather than irritating. “You work on Ransom; I’ll work on Holster. Go through his spreadsheets with him, and if everything adds up, do what you can to help him see that he’s gotta stay at Samwell. I’ll make sure Holster’s not doing anything drastic, like burning all his photographs of Ransom or whatever.”

“You can’t tell him what’s going on,” Dex warns. “I promised Ransom. And I’m already breaking that promise by telling you about it.”

Nursey holds his gaze a moment longer than normal. “I’m glad you’re telling me. And I won’t say anything about it, I promise. I’m not sure what I’ll say to Holster, but I’ll make sure he gives Ransom another chance.”

Dex imagines Ransom, who might still be huddled under the covers asleep. The image sends a surge of protectiveness through him. “He’d better. Ransom didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Nothing?” Nursey says, raising an eyebrow. “I respect where he’s coming from, but it’s kinda dishonest to start a relationship when you know you might leave the state soon.”

“It’s _Princeton_ ,” Dex snaps.

Nursey looks ready to fire something back, but then he catches his breath and measures Dex’s expression, eyes thoughtful. “You’re right,” he finally says. “No one could fault him for going to Princeton if they give him a spot and a scholarship. I guess I’m just saying that he could have been more upfront to Holster about it. I know he was scared to bring it up, but honesty’s good.”

Dex has a little more fight in him, but he forcibly shoves it down in response to Nursey’s purposeful de-escalation. “It would have been good, yeah. So you’re talking to Holster, I’m talking to Ransom?”

“That’s the plan,” Nursey smiles, and this whole situation is so baffling and new that Dex can feel his heart speeding up in response. “We’ll wear ‘em down, right, Dex?”

For some reason, Dex can hardly do anything but swallow against his dry throat. “Yeah, Nursey.”

  


**five**

  


The SMH groupchat has stayed conspicuously silent all day, but there are literally fifteen different texts sent to him from individual teammates that Holster has chosen to ignore. 

As soon as he’d realized that whatever he was feeling for Ransom was based on a lie, and that he was definitely the only one feeling it at all, Holster had left. He wants to keep leaving, even though there aren’t any concrete ways to demonstrate that now that the whole team has moved back into the Haus and he doesn’t have any reason to see Ransom around campus, anyway.

But he can avoid looking at all the messages his friends are sending. Messages that are probably all about Ransom, or about Holster-and-Ransom, since (he’s deduced after a painstaking analysis of the situation) the way he stormed out of La Church didn’t exactly leave his feelings toward Ransom ambiguous. 

So when Holster sees Nursey approaching him, he’s grateful for the distraction until he notices the uncertain sympathy in Nursey’s eyes. “Fuck,” Holster mumbles. “Look, bro, I appreciate whatever it is you’re trying to do here, but let’s just talk about something else, okay? Did you hear the art department is looking for models? You should think about doing that.”

“You could have told me you were seeing Ransom, you know,” Nursey replies, and his voice is relaxed and calm even though his eyes betray a certain level of trepidation. “I would have been on your side.” 

“Huh,” Holster says to his shoes. “Did you hear Yahoo’s picking up the next season of Community?”

Nursey allows one wry smile. “Right. And I know about Drake’s new album, too, so don’t bother. I just want to check if you’re doing okay, okay? This morning was rough.”

That’s one way to put it. “I’m fine.” They both know it’s a total lie, but he has to say it. “I think I was just too ready to move on after April shot me down. I hardly know Ransom at all; we’ve been on one date, and it’s fine if he’s going on other dates, right? It’s not a big deal.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Nursey says, “but it seemed like a big deal when you fled the kitchen this morning.”

“I didn’t _flee_ ,” Holster says. “It’s not like I was scared.”

“Stormed out, then.” Nursey takes in Holster’s stubborn expression. “Okay, you _walked_ out in a totally and completely emotionless manner. My point is, you left because you were upset, and it’s okay to admit you’re upset. Hell, I’d say it’s good for you to express that.”

Holster scoffs, mean when he’s hurt. “That’s nice, Nursey, but I’m not going to write a bunch of shitty poems every time I get my feelings hurt. Not everyone deals with things the same way, okay?” 

“You might be more pleasant to be around if you tried that, though,” Nursey says mildly, because freshmen don’t know what it means to respect their elders anymore. “I know you don’t want to talk about how you feel, and I get that, but it might actually make things better if you tried to be open about it.”

“I don’t need to be open about anything. We went on one date, I was rebounding from another non-relationship and got disproportionately invested, and it blew up in my face. Whoops, I fucked up, better luck next time. See?”

Nursey screws his mouth to the side, expression thoughtful. “Look, I really don’t want to step where I’m not needed, but I think you should just talk to Ransom about it. I know you know him better than I do, but he got really upset after you left. Maybe you should just see what he has to say?” 

And that’s it, isn’t it? Holster knows that’s exactly what he should do. It’s what any mature, emotionally-competent person would do. But he knows he’s not exactly mature, and he’s _really_ not in a good relationship with his own emotions – sometimes he isn’t sure they exist; sometimes it seems like they control him. 

If he talks to Ransom, he could learn that this all was, somehow, a big misunderstanding. They could kiss and make up, and then kiss some more. But if he talks to Ransom, he could also be told – to his face – that Ransom never cared about him, that Ransom was just playing with him because he was bored. And there’s a sick part of Holster that’s too afraid of rejection to even take that chance; unfortunately, it’s become pretty clear that this specific part of him is the one calling the shots.

So he tries to keep all the hurt off his face when he says, “I already know what he has to say. He was just having fun, and he thought I was too. And it’s _fine_ , Nursey. I’m used to being a dumbass.”

“Then quit being one and just talk to him,” Nursey says, and he sounds completely exasperated. “Holster, you’re funny and interesting and fun to be around, and Ransom really likes you. It’s not unusual, and please don’t start singing the damn song, that he wants to be with you. Just have _one_ conversation with him. Please?”

Holster resents the fact that Nursey seems to think he has low self-esteem. And that’s the only reason he says yes.

\----

At the door to La Church, Holster pauses. He doesn’t know whether to knock or just walk in like he’d been doing all weekend. It would be polite to knock, but if Ransom really did get upset after Holster left, maybe they wouldn’t even let him inside if he gives them a choice.

So he walks in. God bless the lax bros for always leaving their front door unlocked.

Holster’s experiment with espionage ends on the staircase, where he runs into Marty and Evan. “Don’t kick me out,” he blurts out in a rush. Which is a little embarrassing. 

Marty and Evan slowly exchange some kind of secret eye contact, and Holster tries not to find it infuriating. “We can head down to the kitchen and talk,” Marty says, “but we’re gonna give Ransom some space today, okay?”

The way he says it, it’s pretty obvious that _we_ is a kind way of saying _you_. “I’m not here to yell at him or anything,” Holster says. He tries to keep his voice calm and reasonable, but in reality he’s already starting to feel pissed off. He didn’t come over here just to be told to fuck off. “Just wanted to hear what he has to say, since I didn’t get a chance to hear his side of things this morning.”

“Yeah, we noticed,” Evan says drily. “But you’ll have to come back another day. When he invites you.”

Holster clenches his jaw and measures out a few breaths. “I’m here now. Things were kind of ugly this morning, and if I can just talk to him—“

“This morning was fucked up,” Evan cuts him off. “And Ransom isn’t gonna have any visitors today, so don’t try.”

Marty looks apologetic. “It’s not personal, it’s just that there’s no exceptions.”

“It’s kinda personal,” Evan says. “But whatever, it’s not your fault. Ransom isn’t feeling great, and you need to leave. It’ll just be worse if he hears you.”

For a moment, Holster seriously considers pulling out the obnoxious trope of screaming out his lover’s name while being dragged away, but that would be super embarrassing if it turns out that Ransom really _doesn’t_ like him, so he lets Evan and Marty guide him back down the stairs.

“Sorry, bro,” Marty says as Holster opens the front door and stares glumly out at the snow. “We’ll try to let you know when it’s a better time, though, okay?”

Holster nods, silent. His anger at being turned away is starting to dissipate, and as it leaves it’s replaced by fear. Maybe Evan was just exaggerating, but it sounds like Ransom is – unwell, somehow? Like, he knows this isn’t a Victorian romance novel, so Ransom probably isn’t going to go into shock and die just because Holster got angry at him, but it still doesn’t feel right.

“Hey, just – is he okay?” Holster directs the question at Evan, because he seems less concerned about protecting Holster’s feelings.

Evan looks wholly unimpressed with him. “Just leave, dude. If he wants to see you when he _is_ okay, he’ll let you know.”

As Holster crosses the road toward the Haus, he thinks back on the short glimpse he caught of Ransom’s bedroom door, shut. He tries to imagine what Ransom is doing, how he’s feeling, but every image scares him. 

If he were a different kind of person, this would be a good reason to sneak back over tonight and throw pebbles at Ransom’s bedroom window. But he’s not a different kind of person, and he’s stuck with his own cowardice.

  


**six**

  


The morale in La Church had been at an all-time low for the whole day. Everyone is wary of talking too loudly, of acknowledging the elephant in the room, and of accidentally causing more harm if they try to help.

But once afternoon classes have let out and the residents of La Church have found their way home, it turns out that Marty has come up with a concrete plan to help Ransom feel better – make snickerdoodles. 

Puppy, Evan, Chad, and Dex are on board right away, and Conrad is easily convinced once it’s made clear that he can only have one if he contributes to the baking process.

“There,” Conrad says, setting the oven to 400 degrees, “done.” He plops down at the table and pulls out his phone.

“Shit, that was the step I wanted to do,” Evan says. “Can someone else read the instructions? My brain just, like, shuts down every time I try.” 

Dex rolls his eyes but obliges, and it quickly becomes apparent that they would be helpless without his attention to detail and Chad’s administrative spirit. Puppy is a good helper, but he has a tendency to spill things. Marty’s heart is in the right place, but Chad has to take away his measuring duties once it’s clear that Marty has no idea what the difference is between a teaspoon and a tablespoon.

And Conrad actively distracts them by reading out today’s Wellie updates, which might be why the cookies turn out slightly burned. 

First there’s a photo of that guy who’s always working at Jerry’s, a candid depicting him making a drink while looking down the counter at a group of customers, his expression a perfect picture of annoyance; it’s captioned, _always waiting. always watching._

Someone had submitted a confession about how wonderful and gorgeous and smart and funny March Rosengart is. Marty wonders if Ola did it as a way of making it up to March, since Ola failed to set her up with Ransom, but Chad says he doesn’t think it’s from Ola. 

There’s even a snapshot of Puppy, followed by a somewhat disturbing caption sharing how much the sender wants to “get freaky” with him, along with a myriad of other, less euphemistic, things. 

“That’s so stupid,” Evan says for the ninth time. “No one even says that anymore, what the hell?” He launches on a thorough criticism of the sender, which is a shame since he’s the one whose job it is to take the cookies out of the oven once eight minutes have passed. “And why would Wellie even post that? It’s creepy and invasive. They never post things that are blatantly sexual like this.”

“I dunno, I thought it was nice,” Puppy says, pink-cheeked. “What’s that smell?”

So, yes, the snickerdoodles are burned. 

After a brief discussion, they decide that Dex should be the one to bring them to Ransom, partially because they already have a somewhat close relationship, and partially because Dex was part of the smaller group that stayed with Ransom that morning after his panic attack. 

So now Dex is standing outside Ransom’s closed door and feeling ten million kinds of inadequate. He doesn’t know what to say, he knows his personality doesn’t lend itself well to being consoling, and even the cookies are trash. But he knocks anyway.

When Ransom doesn’t answer, Dex swallows his fear and knocks again, slowly opening the door. Ransom is in plain sight, hunched over his laptop at his desk, and he’s clearly breathing, so that’s good. 

Ransom twists to see who’s at the door, eyes wide with anxiety, and Dex can admit that he’s slightly disappointed to see that Ransom doesn’t appear to soften at all when he sees that it’s Dex.

“Hey,” he offers weakly. “We made cookies. They suck, but they’re snickerdoodles.”

Ransom shrugs and looks down at his desk. “You didn’t need to do that.”

“Yeah, but we did.” Dex’s voice sounds way more abrasive than it needs to, and _shit_ this is why they should have sent Puppy. “You don’t have to try one, like I said they’re pretty bad, but here.” He sets the Tupperware on Ransom’s desk and shifts awkwardly on his feet. “How… how’s it going? With, uh, you know?” 

It’s a bit sad to watch Ransom paste an unconvincing smile on his face. “Still thinking,” he says, and Dex can immediately hear the way his voice sounds thinner, shakier. “A lot to decide, you know?”

“Yeah, I know,” Dex says. “Or, I can imagine, I guess I can’t really _know_ what it’s like. But are you – have you been doing okay? Nothing like, uh, this morning?” 

Ransom folds his lips in self-consciously and nods. Then he looks up and Dex and sighs. “Well, maybe a little. Which is – I don’t know.”

Dex wants to ask if this happens a lot; and if it can happen in response to anything or if it’s almost always about tests, which is all that Dex had been aware of Ransom having issues with before this; and if he frequently has panic attacks that wipe him out for the whole day like this. But he can’t figure out if asking would be rude or if it would be a nice way to show that he cares, so all Dex can do is make a sympathetic face and keep quiet. 

And _this_ is why they should have sent Chad up here instead of him.

“I’m sorry I freaked everyone else out,” Ransom adds. “And I know you guys are all tiptoeing around because of me, which isn’t what I wanted either.”

“It’s okay,” Dex says. “Nobody minds.”

“I’m sorry,” Ransom says again. “I just feel like being here right now is choking me or something? And I don’t mean that in a bad way against you guys or anything, and it doesn’t even mean that I’m definitely leaving, but right now I’m so stressed out that just knowing I’m in a house with six people who are wondering what I’m going to do and how I am – I just feel like I can’t breathe.” And it’s true; Dex can see that even in getting out this short explanation, Ransom looks lightheaded and is breathing shallowly by the end.

If there’s one thing Dex knows how to do, it’s find a practical solution. “Do you know anyone who lives alone and would let you crash with them until you’ve made up your mind about where you’re going to school? You said you’ve gotta know by Friday, right?”

“Uh huh,” Ransom manages. He looks, somehow, even more stressed than before.

“Is there anyone like that? Someone you could stay with so you can just get away and focus?”

Ransom looks like it physically pains him to think about this, but he’s at least trying. “Um. Maybe? One of my high school buddies moved to Westwood last year. But I don’t know if I could ask him.”

It’s nearly impossible to imagine someone saying no to Ransom. “Why not?”

“I don’t know. It would be kinda hard to explain.”

“You can say we’re getting our floors ripped out and replaced,” Dex immediately suggests. “You don’t have to tell him anything personal.”

Ransom nods, staring down at his knees. “I’ll think about it. Thanks, Dex.”

“Yeah, no problem.” Dex takes a deep breath. He hates doing this, and he can already feel himself flushing, but it seems important. “Just so you know, we’re all rooting for you and we hope you make a decision that will make you happy. Obviously it would be awesome if you can stay here, but Princeton is a really great school and we’ll happy for you if you go there, too. Okay?” 

“Yeah. Okay.” Ransom gives him a shaky smile. “Thanks. And thanks for the cookies, too.”

Dex gets up and starts heading for the door. “No problem. Let me know what your friend says, okay? And the cookies really do suck, Ransom, I already tried one. Like, don’t even bother eating them.”

Ransom has a faraway look in his eyes. “I’m definitely gonna eat them. Unless you bring me mac ‘n cheese. Can you bring me mac ‘n cheese?”

Really, of all the people who live here, Dex is the only one who would be willing to say yes _and_ be capable of making the mac and cheese without fucking it up. Maybe he _was_ the right person for this job. “Sure, Ransom. I can do that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly princeton doesn't even accept transfer students. but this is an AU and ransom is a very special person, so. and i wanted that plot twist to be a surprise but not COMPLETELY out of nowhere, so there's a tiny sprinkling of clues in the first few chapters. 
> 
> ok tune back in on valentine's day to see how these star-crossed bros work everything out! (or how they die in each other's arms............) (just kidding it's a happy ending i swear)


	5. Act Five

**one**

  


_February 10, 2015_

**Derek Nurse** 12:46 PM  
um holster said he was barred from entering ransoms room yesterday?? 

**Derek Nurse** 12:48 PM  
that was not part of our plan bruh

  
**Dex** 12:49 PM  
I didn’t know that would happen. And now Ransom’s not even living here anymore so idk what to do.  


**Derek Nurse** 12:49 PM  
WHAT????

  
**Dex** 12:51 PM  
Oh. I don’t mean he’s transferring. He doesn’t know yet. But he moved out for now so he has space to think.  


  


****

Incoming call from Derek Nurse

****

****  


  


\----

  


Dex is waiting in the kitchen for Nursey’s warning text. He has his winter coat, gloves, and hat, and is ready to grab his backpack at a moment’s notice. He doesn’t actually have anything _in_ the backpack, but there’s no way that Holster is going to know that.

As it turns out, Nursey being an English major is good for more than just easy joke material. He’s apparently a natural at planning out espionage, thanks to a well-developed sense of creativity and imagination. That probably lends itself well to many parts of Nursey’s life, really.

Dex decides to stop his train of thought right there.

He’s just starting to feel uncomfortably sweaty, bundled up as he is in the kitchen, when his phone buzzes. Dex pulls his backpack over his shoulders and heads outside, running over his prepared lines as he sees Holster coming down the Haus’s driveway across the street.

For a moment, it seems like Holster wants to ignore him, but then Holster lifts his hand in a somewhat unenthusiastic wave. “Hey, Dex. How’s it going?”

Well, this is already different than Dex had planned. For one, he’d assumed he would have to start the conversation, and had been rehearsing a pretty terrible fake-surprised reaction, during which he would repeat two times that he was headed to the buildings to study. “Fine. How are you?”

“Good,” Holster says. “And how are… things?” 

That must mean Ransom. But Dex doesn’t trust his own acting abilities to bring Ransom up on his own. “Good. Happy that classes are cancelled. And I heard that same-sex marriage is happening in Alabama now, so that’s a pretty big deal.”

“Oh, cool. And how’s Ransom?”

Not very subtle, but Dex can work with that. “Oh. I don’t know, actually. He’s not here anymore.”

Holster stares at him. “What do you mean? Where is he?”

“He moved out this morning,” Dex says, skirting the question. “Shit, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I guess I thought someone else would.”

“So he just _left_?” Holster asks, incredulous. “He’s not going to talk to me about anything that happened, he’s just leaving?”

Dex doesn’t know what to do. He didn’t expect Holster to be pissed off about this. And he doesn’t know Holster well, so it’s hard to say if this means the plan is backfiring, or if this is just how Holster processes information he doesn’t like. But Nursey made a plan, and Dex is going to stick to it. “Uh… yes? I don’t think he expected you to want to talk to him, though. He was kinda under the impression that you hated him?”

“That’s….” Holster clenches his jaw and stares angrily at the ground. “So he’s at Princeton now? Just like that?”

“He was too upset about everything that happened to stay here,” Dex says. 

Holster looks overwhelmed, eyes wide but not appearing to really take anything in. “Oh. Uh, I think I forgot something in the Haus, so I’ll see you later. Bye.”

Dex watches Holster shuffle back toward the Haus, and flinches as Holster almost falls on his ass when he slips on some ice. He almost feels guilty for the intentional deception. _Almost._

  


  
**Dex** 1:30 PM  
Looks like he bought it. Mission Impossible: Love Edition is back on track.  


**Derek** 1:30 PM  
omg i cant believe youre calling it that. nerdddd

  
**Dex** 1:31 PM  
You’re the one who named it that in the first place, don’t start.  


**Derek** 1:31 PM  
;)

  


**two**

  


This is the first day ever, in Adam Birkholtz’s entire life, that he’s been depressed on a snow day. 

Obviously, the whole thing had started the day before, when he saw that picture of Ransom on a date with someone else, but things had somehow managed to get worse from there. First, Nursey had told him that he’d heard rumors that Ransom was considering a transfer to Princeton because he was so upset about what had happened. Then Dex had confirmed that Ransom had already gone – and of course he could swing a last-minute transfer to fucking _Princeton_ , because he really was that smart.

And now he can’t get Johnson to talk to him for more than ten seconds because Jerry’s is too busy. Nothing in his life is fair. 

“Johnson, I need to talk to you,” he hisses for the third time when Johnson comes back to the counter. “Stop making drinks at the other end of the bar!”

“What’s up?” Johnson asks, but he must be able to see from Holster’s face that it’s nothing good, because he looks like he’d rather not hear it. 

Holster holds out his mug for what he hopes will be a free refill. “Was Ransom in here on Sunday? Did you see him?” 

Johnson picks up the rag he uses to wipe down the counter and worries it between his hands. “Sunday? Ransom?”

“Oh my god, Johnson, I know he was here. I saw it on the stupid Wellie twitter. I just want to know what _you_ saw.”

“I saw Ransom get some food. He was sitting with a guy, and it seemed like it could have been a date. I don’t know, do you really need me to provide the backstory on this? You saw the picture.”

Holster takes the mug back, since Johnson apparently has no intention of filling it, or of sharing any good news with him either. “But just because it _looks_ like a date doesn’t mean it was, right? Did you think they were flirting? Did it seem like Ransom was into him?” 

Johnson walks away for a few minutes to bring some food out to a booth, then returns with a cranky look on his face. “Dude, can’t you just talk about this with him? If he’s the love of your life or whatever, you should be able to have this conversation.”

“He probably wouldn’t answer my texts anyway,” Holster mutters, trying not to flinch as he thinks back on the incident at yesterday’s breakfast. “We had a big fight over it.”

“Oh, that sucks,” Johnson says. “I wouldn’t say I was eavesdropping on his maybe-date, but I totally was since I knew you were into him, and they were talking a lot about Princeton. I wonder if Ransom’s moving there soon?”

Holster picks up his backpack – not that he’s gotten any work done anyway – and glowers at Johnson as he gets ready to leave. “I already knew that, and thank you so much for bringing it up so thoughtfully. That’s all you have to say, man? What the _hell?_ ”

“Sorry, bro, I just don’t know this Ransom guy very well. But I know you, and I don’t know if it’s the greatest idea to date someone who’s seeing other people _and_ is moving to another state. Just doesn’t seem like the recipe for a happy ending, you know?” 

“No, I don’t know,” Holster says, even though he had felt the same way up until he’d learned that Ransom was gone. “I’ll see you later.”

He can barely think as he walks back to the Haus, his mind is so flooded with anger and anxiety, but once he’s shed his wet socks, poured himself another cup of coffee, and tucked himself away in the attic, Holster’s ready to make a game plan. 

Hell, he’s the one on the team who always comes up with creative strategies. Surely he can make a play out of _this_.

Convincing Ransom to come back to Samwell? Reasonable, but Holster has a feeling that he’s currently more invested in the relationship than Ransom is, and he’s fine with that. He’s planning on finding a way to _change_ that, but he’s okay with it for now.

Convincing Princeton to reject Ransom’s application? Evil and bad, what the fuck, why did that even cross his mind?

Attempting a long-distance relationship seems even less likely than convincing Ransom to stay. The very existence of their _short-distance_ relationship is questionable; Ransom would never go for it. 

That leaves one option. Holster’s stomach is telling him it’s a bad idea, and his brain doesn’t like it much either, but when he pictures being with Ransom – being with Ransom anywhere – he feels like he’s finally breathing after going without air.

Fuck it, he’s applying to Princeton. By every stretch of logic it’s a terrible idea, but it’s the only thing that feels right in Holster’s bones. 

It takes a while to get his application together – Holster _may_ have a recent faculty letter of recommendation that was intended to get him into an internship program, and he _may_ tweak it just a bit to make it fit Princeton’s requirements – but he’s tenacious and it’s all for Ransom, so he doesn’t stop until the application is completely ready.

The last step is paying the application fee. Sixty-five dollars is a bargain if it’ll bring him closer to Ransom, but Holster only has $219 in his bank account, so he can’t help but wince a little as he submits the application.

He should feel stupid for doing this. He barely knows Ransom. His GPA is good, but not Princeton-good. He’ll never get that money back. 

But Holster has never felt so confident that he’s meant to be with Ransom, and when you’re meant to be together, the universe finds a way of making it happen. And hell, if he gets rejected by Princeton – as he most likely will – he can find a different school nearby. He could never explain to anyone else why this decision is so effortless, so easy, but the short answer is: he’ll do anything to see Ransom smile at him again, and hopefully to get to be the reason for that smile every day. 

“Princeton application: sixty-five dollars,” Holster whispers to himself, giddy. “Being with Justin Oluransi: priceless.”

  


**three**

  


Everything is exciting these days, Derek thinks. He’s used to a steady rotation of sleep, practice, class, homework, practice, chilling, sleep, with a few parties thrown in here and there; his life is chill, and he loves it.

But now his life is decidedly _not_ chill, and he’s finding that… he kind of loves that, too?

Well. He doesn’t love how things have gone to shit for Holster and Ransom. That pretty much sucks. But he likes trying to help Holster, and he likes the feeling that both the hockey team and lacrosse team are hoping together for the same thing, and he _thinks_ he likes the way Dex is smiling at him lately.

Bullshit aside – he really, really likes it. He likes it so much that Dex has begun to make appearances in Derek’s fantasies when he’s winding down in the shower. 

But Dex’s scowl is still almost as quick as his smile, and fuck it, Derek is sensitive. He can’t really commit to having _feelings_ for someone who he’s not sure even likes him in the general sense of the word. And Dex has apparently welcomed Derek as a co-conspirator in their mission to heal the relationship between Holster and Ransom, sure, but Derek’s not sure it goes any deeper than that.

Which is fine.

So now he’s shoveling down some truly godawful snickerdoodles in La Church, not because he’s looking for Dex or anything, but because Evan invited him over. Derek is likable like that; people invite him places. He’s totally ready to remind Dex of this if the topic comes up.

Or if Dex ever _shows_ up. Which is, you know, not that big of a deal either way, because Derek is just here because Evan invited him to hang out.

“Wanna go sledding?” Evan asks. “I stole some trays from the dining center that we can use and Chad told me where the best hill is.”

Derek shifts, hoping that Dex will appear any second now. Because damn, he really does want to go sledding, but he also doesn’t want to leave and miss Dex coming back from wherever he is. “Uh, maybe? I was thinking we could warm up a little while longer. Go later?”

“Oh, sure, yeah,” Evan grins. “I wanted to wait for Dex and Marty to get back from the party they’re at anyway.”

“They’re at a _party_?” Derek can’t help but gape. “Who the fuck throws a party in this weather? And in the middle of the day?”

“Well, to be fair, it’s not, like, a real party,” Evan says. “It’s more like a tea party, I guess? But with hot chocolate. And probably a little bit of peppermint schnapps thrown in, because duh.”

“Duh,” Derek murmurs. So Dex might be coming back slightly tipsy. That’s… interesting. He’s never seen Dex sloshed when he himself is sober. “Okay, let’s wait.”

It turns out they only have to wait for another fifteen minutes, and Derek spends those minutes watching Evan play 2048, shoving more snickerdoodles in his mouth, and trying to fuck up Evan’s score on 2048 by swiping at Evan’s phone screen when Derek gets bored of eating the (honestly terrible) cookies. 

“Thank God,” Evan says when Marty and Dex finally pile in the front door, shaking snow off their boots. “I was about to commit Nurseycide. I was so fucking close to beating my high score, you asshole.”

“I was bored,” Derek mumbles, feeling his face heat up as he avoids looking at Dex. 

Dex, who doesn’t seem like he’s consumed any alcohol at all, grins. “We should hang out with the history majors more often.” He’s still wearing his goddamn puffy coat, and God it’s so _puffy_ , snuggled up against his cheeks in a way that almost hurts to look at. “They’re nice. And chill.”

“Yeah, they’re chill,” Marty says, looking smug for what appears to be no reason whatsoever. “Oh shit, I was never into The OC, I don’t even get to be happy.”

“Ooh, are you guys watching that?” Derek asks, and he still can’t quite make eye contact with Dex. “I’ve never seen it.”

“No, we’re going _sledding_ ,” Evan says, throwing a snickerdoodle at Marty’s head. It hits the doorframe and bounces five feet without breaking, which is slightly alarming. “I’ve got the dinner trays, Samwell’s got the hill, Nursey’s got the childlike enthusiasm of a sad bastard who grew up in the middle of a city. All we need is you two to come along.”

“Fuck yeah,” Marty says. “I’ll grab the Pam.”

Dex surveys the situation with undisguised horror. “Please tell me you’re not sledding down an icy hill on a greased-up dinner tray.”

“I could say that,” Evan says, “but I’d be lying.”

“Please lie to me, then.”

“You’re not going?” Derek blurts out. He’d already been planning on joking around out on the hill by trying to see if he could squeeze onto the tray behind Dex and sled down together. Ha, ha, ha.

Dex levels a fondly judgmental look his way. “No, I don’t need to find out firsthand what it feels like to be plastered against a tree. I’m doing my homework. Nursey, please don’t die, you’re clumsy enough when you’re just walking.”

“Oh, shit, yeah,” Evan says. “Better stay back, Nurse. Don’t want to see you hurt.”

Okay, that offends Derek. Even though he had _just_ been about to open his mouth and announce that, on second thought, he was going to stay behind, now he wants to go again. “I’ll be fine! I’m not even that clumsy. That’s, like, an urban legend.”

“Well, it _is_ legendary,” Marty allows. “I’ve seen, like, thirty different Snap stories where you fall right on that beautiful ass of yours.”

“This week,” Dex adds, because he’s mean.

Derek shakes his head. “Chill. If you’re really that worried about me, I’ll stay behind.”

“Good idea,” Evan says. “Marty, don’t move. I’m gonna go grab my shit and then we’ll be out of here.”

Derek knows he should make eye contact with Dex, make _conversation_ , while they’re alone in the kitchen and listening to the sounds of Marty and Evan getting ready to go. But he’s afraid he’ll say something he shouldn’t, like he’ll make fun of Dex or tell him he wants him. 

So Derek waits for Marty and Evan to leave, feels a self-conscious warmth flood his skin, and screws his mouth side to side as he stares into space. 

Once the door slams and they’re _really_ alone, Dex shifts awkwardly. “I could go work on some homework now. Or were you planning on staying…?”

“No, I’m staying!” Derek says in a small panic. “It’s cold outside. Can we have more hot chocolate here? Or do you have a board game or something?”

Dex looks vaguely amused. “We can have hot chocolate. But I’m not playing a board game with you. That sounds like a good way to go back to hating each other again.” 

All Derek can do is grin back stupidly and wait for Dex to hand him a mug, because Dex just admitted that he doesn’t hate him anymore. And the mug Dex places in his hands is a green monstrosity that looks like the Grinch – sort of, if you imagine How The Grinch Stole Christmas as a horror movie – and when Dex’s fingertips brush the palm of Derek’s hand and Dex lifts one corner of his mouth in a surprisingly genuine smile, Derek feels like he might as well be in a Jane Austen novel.

“Wanna sit in the living room?” he asks, and the tone of his voice is so overtly flirtatious that Derek should feel ashamed, but in all honesty he’s run out of fucks to give. “Probs cozier in there.” 

“You’re a terrible English major,” Dex mutters, but it sounds so nakedly fond that Derek can only smile in response. “But sure, we can sit out there. Board games are still gonna be off-limits, though.”

“Righto,” Derek says, and fine, he _does_ feel a bit ashamed about that one. “Um, lead the way.”

They end up sitting way too close together on the couch, legs propped up on the coffee table, hands scalded by the hot mugs they’re holding, shoulders brushing. Dex shows him the news apps he uses on his phone, a rebuttal to a weeks-old argument about ignorance and self-education. While Dex thumbs through various articles and op-eds, Derek leans in and pretends to pay attention, mostly absorbing Dex’s warmth, enjoying the way his heartbeat picks up when he thinks about how close his mouth is to Dex’s neck.

“ _And_ I follow a bunch of people on Twitter, see,” Dex continues, and Derek does see. He’s not going to take a break from floating in this heaven of neck-smelling, but he can take a moment to be impressed by the wide variety of thinkers and activists that pepper Dex’s timeline. 

There’s also a candid of April Shultz buying dark red roses and looking quite happy with herself. “Aw, you follow Wellie. I knew you were well-informed.”

Dex answers him with an elbow poking Derek’s chest. “Everyone follows Wellie. I don’t know why, though. It’s kind of stupid. At least in my opinion.”

 _Don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t be a dumbass._ “Lolz, do you remember when Wellie posted that pic of me in your driveway? And the caption was all, look at this fine hunk of a man?”

“When you say _lolz_ out loud with your mouth, I want to die. Just a little.”

Derek waits.

“ _Yes,_ Nursey, I remember.”

“Oh.” Derek can feel his body trying to send him a message – nerves tangling in his stomach, lungs struggling to keep up – but he’s always been a go-big-or-go-home kind of guy when it comes to relationships. “Was that you? It sort of sounded like you.”

Dex turns bright red, and he scoots a few inches away from Derek so he can turn to face him. “Uh, no. I saw that, but it wasn’t me.”

“Oh, okay,” Derek says, distantly aware that it’s kind of impressive how casual his voice sounds when he feels like he’s plummeting down a deep, dark tunnel of humiliation. 

What might be a minute passes. “Hey, whatever,” Dex says. “There was one of me too, if you saw it? Not a picture, just a confession thing. Someone out there thinks I’m _hot as fuck_.”

“Imagine that,” Derek says weakly.

“You didn’t send that one, did you?” Dex asks, and it’s equally clear that he is trying really hard to make it sound like he’s joking and that he isn’t joking at all.

Derek wishes Marty and Evan would come back. He wishes he’d never sent that dumb message to Wellie; he only sent it because he thought the one about him had been from Dex. “No. Sorry to disappoint.” 

He watches as Dex takes his legs off the coffee table and swivels to face Derek, moving so he’s sitting cross-legged on the couch. “I was, actually,” Dex says, offhanded. 

“Sorry?”

“Disappointed,” Dex says, blushing but not looking away. “I wanted it to be you.” 

Derek knows a moment when he sees one. “It was,” he whispers, and leans into Dex with a kiss that’s far softer than he thought it was possible for the two of them to share. Dex’s mouth moves carefully against his own, an assurance that this is real. 

After a long pause, Derek pulls back and smiles down at his hands. He feels warm and hopeful, and he can already feel himself restructuring the narrative of their relationship retroactively, going back to the beginning and filling in the subtext with what now seems inevitable. “And I wanted the post about me to be from you,” he dares.

Dex slides his freckled hands onto Derek’s and pulls himself closer, almost on top of Derek. He leans in close, lips almost touching Derek’s ear – “It wasn’t,” Dex whispers, and then Dex is snickering against his shoulder. 

Derek slaps Dex’s hands away, but he can’t help but laugh too. “Asshole,” he mutters, softening the word with a quick kiss to the side of Dex’s head.

When Dex pulls Derek closer, one hand clasped around Derek’s chin, it’s easier than arguing to start kissing again. This time Derek doesn’t try to stop himself from using tongue, and within a minute their legs are tangled, hands sliding over stomachs and sides, teeth digging into lips and smiling over a gasp.

Really, it’s a miracle that they hear the front door open at all, and by the time Chad and Ola have stomped the snow off their boots and wandered into the living room, Dex has bolted upstairs in a frankly adorable fight-or-flight reaction, and Derek is pulling his shoes back on.

“Oh, Nursey. You were here?” Chad asks, more confused than anything.

“Just a bit,” Derek says as he opens up the front door and steps outside. “Have a blessed day.”

He can hear Ola shouting “Get a room!” as he shuts the door behind him. And doesn’t _that_ sound like a good idea.

  


**four**

  


_February 11, 2015_

Holster’s mouth tastes like something died inside it – or, really, more like several things died inside it. He’s too anxious to focus, even on something as sacred as the Mother’s Day episode from Season 4 of 30 Rock. And his butt hurts more than he had ever realized was possible.

He’s fifteen minutes away from Princeton, New Jersey.

A few minutes after he’d finished applying for Princeton, he’d been overwhelmed by the perfectly rational fear that he was making a huge mistake. Naturally, he’d figured that checking out the Princeton area on his own would be a good way to calm his nerves and assure himself that he’d made the right decision.

So, here he is. First he’d driven into Boston at 5 AM, dropping his car off at the bus station’s overnight parking; then he’d taken a megabus from Boston to New York, during which he’d listened to Kanye West’s _Late Registration, Graduation, 808s & Heartbreak,_ and _My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy_ albums. (He was embarrassed about it, but it was true.) Four hours of Kanye later, he’d waited around the New York bus station for a train to take him to Time Square, from which he’d boarded _another_ megabus, this one taking him the last hour and a half to Princeton. This was where he’d tried to soothe himself with 30 Rock episodes, but his nerves and aching ass had really gotten in the way of that.

But when the bus finally pulls into Princeton, Holster is buoyed by a strange sense of excitement. It’s the same feeling he gets when his skin brushes Ransom’s, as if Ransom were here now, welcoming Holster to the next step in their journey.

Maybe Ransom is here. Holster really doesn’t know. Maybe he’ll see Ransom, because of fate and stuff. And that thought is enough to simultaneously freak him out and make his heart race with excitement, so he’s not sure exactly if he wants it to happen.

His excitement only wanes a little bit when he realizes that he’s really going to need to book a hotel room if he’s planning on staying here overnight. And he _has_ to stay here overnight; how could he make such a momentous decision if he’s rushing through it?

So Holster slings his duffel bag over his shoulder and calls an Uber. He doesn’t know anything about local hotels and he’s too keyed up to bother looking it up and comparing prices on his phone, so he just tells the driver to take him to the shittiest hotel within fifteen minutes.

The drive is only five minutes, and the hotel doesn’t seem that shitty, but the driver assures Holster that this is really the cheapest hotel around. Holster has to shell out another sixty dollars – that’s on top of the twenty-five he spent on getting here, plus the fifteen to park his car in Boston – but at least he’ll have somewhere to sleep tonight. 

Holster takes a three-minute shower and changes into fresh clothes, then starts looking up bussing information to get to the university. 

It turns out that the buses around here are absolute shit, and it would take him over forty-five minutes to get to the university, and that’s only if he leaves right now. Since the university is only four miles away, Holster decides to call another Uber instead of navigating the hellish bus system.

By the time Holster actually gets to Princeton U, he’s already mentally exhausted. Which is maybe not a good sign if he wants to be a student here, but whatever. He’s not going to try to sign up for a tour, since he already spent $110 on this trip so far, hasn’t bought any food yet, and still has to pay another twenty-five dollars for the return trip home. 

He’s probably going to have 69 dollars in his bank account by this time tomorrow, which is kind of horrible and kind of awesome at the same time.

So Holster just wanders around campus, admiring the library for three minutes before getting bored; awed by the brisk, bright-eyed students hurrying to class and bunkered down at study tables around campus; and enjoying the way the afternoon sun sparkles across the snow. 

He can see Ransom going here. Ransom would thrive here and probably become the world’s most gorgeous, life-saving medical genius. And he can see himself wherever Ransom is, so it’s no trouble at all to picture a good few years here. If he doesn’t make it into Princeton – and let’s face it, unless destiny interferes in a big way, he probably won’t – he can get his degree online or something. 

Around 3:00, Shitty calls him. This would be surprising, expect Holster may have been ignoring the groupchat, as well as individual messages from the team, all day. “Uh, hey,” Holster says as he answers. He’s watching a table of students who look like they might be in Princeton’s medical program. “You need something?”

“Oh sweet fuck, you’re alive,” Shitty says. “That’s good. Now where the fuck are you?”

And isn’t that a loaded question. “I took the day off. Just needed to clear my head and get away from Samwell.”

“That’s a load of bullshit, Birkholtz. What are you _doing_?”

“...Eating a bagel.”

Shitty huffs out a snort. “And where are you eating this bagel, exactly?”

Holster glances down at his cuticles, trying for a neutral tone. “Princeton.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Shitty curses. “You don’t really get the concept of doing things halfway, do you?”

“I know what I’m doing, Shits. I can’t explain it to you because you’re not – you don’t know what we’re like together, but trust me. This thing with Ransom is the real deal, and I’d be an idiot to let it go over something that was probably a misunderstanding.”

“Maybe, bro, but couldn’t you just try talking to him? Instead of dragging your broke ass all the way to New Jersey? I love you, but come on.”

Holster tenses his grip on his phone. “He wouldn’t answer my messages. Or my calls. This is what I have to do, Shitty.”

He can hear Shitty sigh. “Holster, it sucks, but don’t you think that he’s not answering because he wants to move on? I mean, fuck, you barely know each other. Like, you haven’t even known him on a Thursday yet.”

“I know that, Shitty,” Holster snaps. “But I’m not just thinking about our first Thursday, which is tomorrow, thanks for asking; I’m thinking about all our Thursdays together for the rest of our lives. That’s what’s at stake here, and that’s the most important thing to me.”

Shitty’s silence is potent. Then – “Well, fuck, that was weirdly romantic. Also scarily detached from reality, but romantic, I’ll give you that. Holster, just come home.”

“I can’t. I already paid for a hotel room and I don’t want to waste money. Anyway, I need to get a feel for the city and figure out what I’m gonna _do_ when I’m here. Fuck, I’ll need a job. Maybe two.”

“Okay, dude. But you’re coming home tomorrow, right?”

Holster watches as the table of (possible) medical students all get up and walk away together, laughing and talking animatedly. “Yeah.” 

This will be a good place for Ransom. Holster knows he’ll be back.

  


**five**

  


His eyes had felt like they might be permanently damaged by staring so long at the bright white spreadsheets of Xcel (and by crying so much, whatever), but Ransom had officially made up his mind that morning.

He’s coming back to Samwell. And he’s going to stay. 

It’s one thing to know that he’s committed to his choice; it’s something else entirely to enter campus and feel a surprising sense of comfort. Of home. It isn’t just because of the lax team, or because of Holster, Camilla, or anyone else in particular – there’s just something about Samwell itself that reaches inside Ransom and reminds him that he belongs. 

Still, when he pulls up in front of La Church and grabs his overnight bag from the passenger seat, Ransom can’t help but feeling a tremor of fear down his spine. He left on such bad terms. They’d seen him break down in an embarrassing way. They know that he’d lied to them, or that he’d at least deliberately concealed the truth from them about Princeton. 

So it’s with considerable trepidation that Ransom quietly opens the front door and steps inside. 

“That was fast,” Puppy says from the living room. “Did you really buy out the whole store?” 

Ransom takes a deep breath and walks into the living room, where he sees Puppy, Evan, Ola, Chad, and – for some reason – Bitty squished together on the couch. “Hey,” he says, and it’s unavoidable that he sounds so nervous, but he still hates it.

“Ransom!” 

“Dude, you should have told us you were coming back, we would have done a surprise party thing.” 

He feels overly exposed under the weight of all their eyes and has to lock his gaze on the arm of the couch in order to stay calm. “Hey. Um. Sorry I didn’t tell you I was coming back today.”

“Are you back to stay?” Ola asks carefully. She’s looking at him with laser focus, but Ransom can’t tell if there’s compassion or judgment in her eyes.

“Yeah, I think so,” he says. “I mean, yeah. I am. If I can still live here and all, that would be – I’m sorry about everything.” He makes eye contact with Bitty, whose presence is the most naturally grounding. But now Bitty looks upset, and Ransom’s stomach sinks. “I know I fucked everything up for both teams by lying, and by hurting Holster, and I’m going to try to make it up to you, I promise—“

“Oh, honey, you’re perfect,” Bitty assures him, but he still looks upset about something. “It’s just – I’m confused. I thought you were at Princeton?”

Ransom’s logical side takes over, giving his emotions a much-needed break. “No, I was considering it, but Samwell’s the right place for me. I already called Princeton to officially decline their offer.”

“Okay,” Bitty says slowly, “but that’s not what everyone in the Haus is saying. As far as we knew, you were at Princeton. Transferred.” 

“Weird,” Ransom says. “But I’m here now.”

“We saved the rest of the snickerdoodles for you,” Chad says, and Ola lightly smacks his side with the back of her hand. “Glad you’re back, bro.”

Just then, the door crashes open as Marty and Conrad fall inside, each carrying at least five grocery bags on each arm. “Agh, I think I broke the eggs,” Marty groans. “Oh! Ransom’s back!”

“Dude, don’t just stand there,” Conrad says. “Help me with these bags.”

As Ransom slides a few grocery bags off Conrad’s arm, they explain that Bitty had come over to officially teach them how to bake, but they hadn’t had any baking ingredients left over from the snickerdoodle debacle. “So we bought all the baking shit at Stop N Shop,” Marty explains.

“Which one?” Bitty asks.

Marty stares. “There’s more than one?”

“Of course there’s—“ Bitty shakes his head. “But we need to return to the subject at hand. Everyone thinks you left, Ransom. I mean, Holster’s at Princeton now! He’s having some kind of crisis and thinks he’s going to win you back by moving there. He took the megabus!”

For a moment, Ransom feels like he’s going to fall over. Holster went – he went to Princeton for _him_. For Ransom, who had already resigned himself to the fact that Holster would want nothing to do with him, that Holster hates him now. But Holster went all the way to Princeton. 

For him.

“Woah,” Marty says, his voice reverent. “Shit, Rans, he must really love you if he’s willing to live in Jersey for you.” 

“Wow,” Puppy says, exchanging a look with Evan. Knowing them, they probably bet on this.

Ransom says nothing. He’ll have to think about this later, recategorize his understanding of who Holster is and what their relationship means, but for now he just lets himself smile.

  


**six**

  


Ransom can’t believe how good it feels to be back. 

Honestly, it feels better _now_ than it ever did in his entire first month at Samwell. Maybe it’s the fact that he doesn’t have any pressure to leave. Maybe it’s because there’s a boy here who (possibly) loves him. Maybe it’s that he now has the whole hockey team in his corner, or just that he’s settled in and knows the campus inside and out, finally.

“I vote that we make Wednesday cuddle parties a weekly thing,” Bitty says. He’s a little bit crushed under Ransom, but hey, Bitty’s a comfortable pillow. Camilla is nestled against Bitty’s side, and Puppy is trying to learn how to braid hair, using Camilla as a test subject.

“Mid-week cuddle therapy sounds good,” Ransom says, and he can feel the soft movement of Bitty’s laughter underneath him, where Ransom’s cheek is pressed against Bitty’s shoulder.

Puppy screws the braid up again and starts over. “Yeah. And maybe next time we can invite Marty.”

“Not Evan?” Camilla asks.

“Nah, he only likes cuddling me, and even then he doesn’t like it that much. He’d probably kick you if you tried, no offense.”

They sink back into a hazy, sleepy silence. Puppy’s fingers in Camilla’s hair are the only sign that any of them are awake. “So, any plans for V-Day?” Puppy asks, once the quiet has apparently become too heavy for him. “Idk who I’m even asking out. Dating is too hard.”

“Pups,” Ransom says, “you’re literally the only straight person in this room right now. Dating was, like, socially designed for you.”

“You and Camilla have dating options twice as big as mine! And Bitty’s dating a fucking hockey god!” Puppy slides a hair elastic onto Camilla’s braid, even though it still looks kind of shitty. “Maybe Fox News was right and straight guys are the real victims in society. JK, JK.”

Bitty struggles to move so he can stare at Puppy. “Wait, you’re straight?”

“Yeah, probably,” Puppy says.

Camilla feels the braid and shrugs. “It can’t be that hard for you to find a date. And if you really can’t, The OC will be here to help.”

“I still want no part in that,” Bitty mutters.

“Hey!” Puppy brightens. “Camilla, you can date me! I mean, just for the one day. So I don’t look like a loser.” 

“You’ll look like a loser no matter what you do, Pups,” Ransom says automatically.

Camilla folds her hands together. “Sorry, hon, but I’ve already got a date. I can see if I can hook you up with someone else, though, okay?”

“Camilla Collins, who are you going out with on Valentine’s Day?” Bitty demands. “And why was I not informed?”

“Oh, wait. I bet I know,” Puppy smirks. “Nice going.”

Camilla glares at him. “There’s no way you could know who it is. And I’m not telling. It’s a surprise. Or a secret; we haven’t decided yet.”

“Okay, speaking from recent experience, avoid the whole secretly-dating thing,” Ransom says. Then he and Bitty yelp in surprise at the exact same time as Ransom’s phone vibrates in his pocket, which is pressed up against Bitty’s leg. “Oh, shit, I have to move to grab that. And I’m so _comfortable_.” Once Ransom has pulled out his phone and read the incoming message, he buries his face in Bitty’s neck for a moment. “Jesus Christ. What do I say to this?”

“Gimmie,” Camilla demands, and grabs his phone. “Can I see this?” She takes his prolonged groan as a yes. “Oh, wow. It’s your boyfriend. Aww, he wants to know if you’re doing alright! And he says he wishes he’d gotten a chance to talk to you before you left. That’s sweet.”

Ransom sits up and rolls off of Bitty, landing on the floor like a parkour ninja cat. Or something. “I said you could read it, not tell everyone what it said, _god_.”

“Wait, so Camilla gets to know about your love life, but not me?” Puppy says. 

“Whatever, I don’t care. Give me my phone back, though.” Ransom stares down at the screen. “What should I say? Just that I’m good now? I shouldn’t say I miss him. That’s weird.”

“Use a heart emoji,” Puppy suggests, already done being offended.

Bitty tries, unsuccessfully, to take the phone. “No, no, no. I’ve known Holster for a year and a half, so believe me when I say you need to tell him to call you. It’s way better for him, trust me.”

“I don’t want him to call me!” Ransom says. “I mean, I do, but I don’t want to talk on the phone right now; I have no idea what to say, and I’d probably sound stupid.”

“Call him,” Camilla urges. “None of us are leaving, though. Front row seats.” 

“I’m not _calling_ him,” Ransom repeats through clenched teeth. “Oh my god, it’s him again,” he squeaks as his phone suddenly buzzes a second time. “Um. Oh. He wants to set up a time to talk. And see how we can move forward.”

Bitty is leaning over Ransom’s shoulder. “You left out the part where he really, really likes you and wants a second chance to prove that to you. Wow, I never knew Holster could be so romantic.”

“I’m so jealous,” Puppy says. “Everyone except me is in love.”

Ransom shakes his head, heart pounding. “I don’t know if I should answer right now. I don’t know what to say.” 

Camilla, who is grinning down at her own phone like a love-struck fool, takes a moment to respond. “If you still like him and you want another chance too, then you should reply. New Jersey, Ransom. He went there for you.”

“Yeah, I know,” Ransom mumbles. “I guess I’ll just say yes. That it… sounds nice. I just don’t want to sound wrong.”

“For Christ’s sake,” Puppy says genially, “just say you like him and you want to see him soon. And add a heart emoji.”

Ransom swallows, then types out a response. “Okay. Done. And I added the fucking heart emoji, even though that was probably terrible advice.”

“No, honey, that was great advice,” Bitty says, rubbing Ransom’s back. “You’ve got a very romantic suitor there, and it’s only right that you add a little romance yourself.”

“You’re screwing with me, Bits. I know you are.”

Camilla puts her phone away, cheeks pink. “Ransom, I love you, but you’re going to wind up living out a Nicholas Sparks movie with this guy, and then I won’t be able to talk to you anymore. I’m sorry.”

Ransom rolls his eyes. “Whatever, Camilla, I can see you sitting _right there_ texting your date and blushing. Hypocrite.”

She rolls her eyes back, but her deepening blush tells another story. 

“I’m single every Valentine’s Day,” Puppy says to no one in particular. “Eff my life.”

  


**seven**

  


_February 12, 2015_

Everyone knows it’s impossible to score two booths right next to each other in Jerry’s, especially during the lunch hour. But the limit of impossibility seems to be one’s willingness to bully others, and after Chad and Conrad had harassed a booth of soccer players to move, the fifteen occupants of the SMH and SLH’s respective houses – including honorary occupants Nursey, Ola, and Camilla – have squeezed into two adjacent booths, right by the windows.

“I think this is why we used to hate you guys,” Bitty remarks sadly, watching the soccer team glare at them from the shitty tables to which they’d been forced to relocate. “We need to work on your ethical development.”

“You need to work on eating more protein, dude,” Evan says. “Two more orders of bacon after that one, amirite?”

Bitty shoves a forkful of bacon in his mouth, scowling to hide his smile.

“Ooh, ooh!” Marty pounds the table with his hand when he hears a new song come on. “Guys, we should totally spoof this song for the athletes’ dinner! We live in La Church, so it’s perfect!”

“We’re not covering Take Me to Church,” Chad says. “That’s boring. Ola already rewrote the Uptown Funk lyrics. We’re doing that.”

“What are you guys doing?” Dex asks the hockey team at large.

“That’s a secret, bro,” Nursey says at the same time that Chowder says, “Shake It Off.”

“Classy,” Chad says. “Love me some T-Swift.” 

Chowder nods vigorously. “Yeah, Holster picked it. He wrote the new lyrics too. He’s kind of obsessed, but not in a bad way, and he’s going to be really mad that I told you about this, actually. So.”

“Then hide, dude, because he’s, like right there,” Marty says.

Ransom almost chokes on his waffle. He splutters for a second, then finds a napkin and wipes off his mouth before turning around. 

Holster is just opening the door to Jerry’s; the little bell jingles and he looks irritated at the noise. Really, he kind of looks like crap – blonde hair messed up, like he had slept on it funny; outfit a travesty even in comparison to what he normally wears; and a noticeable tiredness pulling at his eyes.

None of that explains why Ransom’s heart speeds up at the sight of him, or why a warm feeling of affection settles over him. _Holster’s back._ That’s Ransom’s Holster, and he’s finally here.

When Holster spots the group, he brightens for a moment, then looks even more tired than before. “Hey,” he says, stepping over to their booths. “Didn’t realize you guys were in here. I was just coming in for a cup of coffee. How’s, uh, how’s it going?”

“Don’t you ‘how’s it going’ us, you asshole!” Shitty yells, more with passion than with anger, but it still makes the whole diner turn and stare at them. “You were in Princeton! You went to Princeton and you didn’t tell anyone you were going!”

“Um, yeah,” Holster says, turning slightly red across the bridge of his nose. “But I’m back now.” 

“Cool,” Puppy says. “Come sit here. Right between me and Ransom. Plenty of room!”

“Dude, you look like you’re going to fall off the edge already,” Nursey says. “Why don’t you just move to the other booth so Holster can sit in your spot?”

“Great idea, Nursey,” Puppy says as he grabs his plates and moves.

“Yeah,” Camilla adds, “you always know how to be a problem-solver. I respect that.” 

Holster rolls his eyes a little, but when he sits down, the seating so packed that he has to brush against Ransom’s side, he can’t help but smile. “Um, how are things going?”

“They’re going great,” Ransom says. “You crossed state lines for me. So if you think we’re not kissing right now, you’re wrong.”

“Oh, good,” Holster says, and he leans in for what is meant to be a brief kiss, sweet with the syrup from Ransom’s waffles, but Ransom grabs Holster’s hoodie and holds tight, and soon Holster is tucking his hands around Ransom’s waist and pulling him closer.

Both booths go crazy – Camilla screaming, Puppy clapping his hands like a child, Nursey laughing as he gives Dex a knowing look, Bitty taking a picture because _of course_ he already has his phone out and ready, and Lardo crying. 

“Shut up,” she mutters, wiping her eyes as Evan blatantly laughs at her. “You guys can chirp me all you—“ she sniffs, “—want, but I’ve been hoping for weeks, ever since I met Ransom, even when Holster hadn’t met him yet—“

“Aw, Larissa,” Holster says. “You should have sent me over there sooner instead of making me wait to meet Rans until last week, then.”

“Oh, right,” she says, clearing her throat to gain a little composure, “like I didn’t try that. But _someone_ was just so damn convinced that all lax bros are assholes. I’m just happy you’re finally together. It was so obviously perfect.”

Puppy looks hopeful. “Is there anybody I’d be obviously perfect with? I’m still single.”

“Eat your muffin, Puppy.”

Someone – who turns out to be Johnson – sets a steaming mug of coffee in front of Holster. “Nice to have you back,” Johnson says. “Guess I’ll have to get used to you dating an actual lax bro, huh?”

“Fuck yeah,” Holster says. “We’ll be in here all the time; you’ll have our orders memorized.”

Johnson shrugs. “Sounds good. But I’m drawing the line at afterhours dates from now on.”

“Ooh,” Nursey says in a sing-song voice. “ _Afterhours_. What does he mean by that, exactly?”

Ransom slides his warm hand into Holster’s cold one. “We had our first date here. After closing time. It was dope as hell.”

“Yeah, Johnson opened it up for us. He’s a bro like that.”

Ransom turns and peers at Holster. “Bro, your hand is like a fucking icicle. How long were you outside?”

Holster pulls up one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Not too long. Just bad circulation. You should feel my nose, it’s probably ten degrees colder than the rest of my body right now.”

“Oh no,” Ransom says, always the doctor, and he leans in to plant a kiss on Holster’s cold nose. 

“Oh sweet Lord,” Ola murmurs. 

Shitty glances around both booths. “Can we all agree not to fine them for the next twenty-four hours? They’ve gone through too much of an ordeal to be fined right away.”

“Sure,” Jack says. “But tomorrow’s another story.”

Evan shifts in his seat. “So that one pic of you on the Wellie twitter was that date, Ransom? The one where you looked all sneaky?”

“Yeah,” Ransom says, and it looks like he might be blushing, just a little. “I just looked weird because I was joking around with Holtzy.”

“Actually, in hindsight,” Holster adds, “it was probably Johnson who took that picture. He was around here somewhere and he obviously knew we were in here. I doubt anyone passing by would have noticed us.”

“Yeah, there wasn’t even anyone passing by,” Ransom puts in. “Pretty much a ghost town out here when everything’s closed.”

“Huh,” Evan says. He shoots a look at Puppy, but Puppy seems perfectly content to lick the muffin crumbs out of his otherwise empty muffin cup. Evan rolls his eyes and grabs his phone. “That makes me wonder something. Hold on.” 

Bitty lifts his own phone over his head. “Okay, boys, I’ve been trying to sneak some pictures of you that maybe I’ll send Wellie, as long as you’re okay with that, but I’m really gonna need one where you smile for the camera. Gosh, but you’re so cute together. Aw, that’s the best smile I’ve ever seen from you, Holster.”

“Oh, shit,” Evan says, his tone a bit wooden. “So not to bring up bad memories or anything, but remember how the Wellie account sent me a copy of that picture of you here with the Princeton guy, Rans?”

“Um, vividly.”

“Well, uh, when Wellie sent it to me, they sent me a message. And it didn’t _just_ say to ask you if it was okay to post. They also wanted to know if one of us was the one who took it, because apparently it was sent from the same user who sent that first picture of you. So.” 

Ransom immediately looks stricken, but Holster either doesn’t get it or is refusing to understand. “Huh? Are you saying that one of you guys sent the photo of Rans here with that Princeton douchebag?”

“Come on, he wasn’t really a douchebag,” Ransom says. “And I think Evan is saying that if your friend sent the first picture of me, he was the one who sent the second one.”

“You know, I was in here yesterday and Johnson told me that he didn’t think it was all bad that you two had broken up,” Jack says. “I didn’t pay much attention to it, though, because he’s always saying things that are a little. Unique. He said it contradicted your earlier character development to date a lax bro, Holster, but I’m not sure what that even means.”

“What the fuck is going on?” Holster waves his arm furiously, trying to flag down Johnson. “I’m so pissed. And I’ve needed a refill for, like, two minutes now.”

“That’s not even a long time,” Dex ventures.

“I’m definitely not tipping him if he tried to break you guys up,” Chowder says, always supportive.

Johnson spots Holster’s frantic waving and comes over. “What’s up? You ready for your check?”

“No, I’m ready for an _explanation_ ,” Holster snaps. “Are you the one who sent a picture to the Wellie of Ransom with another guy?” 

“On what was very obviously not a date, which you would know, since you were serving us,” Ransom adds.

Johnson pours Holster some more coffee. “Guilty as charged.”

Holster stares, open-mouthed. “What the _hell_? Why?”

“Look,” Johnson sighs, “finding an antagonist is actually really, really hard because you’re all so nice. I’m kind of the only person cut out for the job, unless Kent Parson decided to show up for some reason, but that would make even less sense, wouldn’t it?”

Jack’s eyebrows pull together in confusion. “Huh? Kent’s not even that bad.”

“Still,” Johnson says. “That was really the only other option. As far as antagonists go, we’re kind of on short supply around here.”

“But why the fuck do we _need_ an antagonist?” Holster demands. “We’re supposed to be friends. Hockey bros for life, what happened to that?”

 **JOHNSON** _[Aside.]_  
Ah, bro, I was ill-used in this AU,  
My deeds reflect the writer’s far-gone muse  
And not the love I hold for thee, er, _you_.  
O! Ne'er would have I done thus, had I pow’r to choose.

Evan’s mouth is hanging open so wide that a piece of bacon falls out. “What the _fuck_ was that?”

Johnson groans and rubs one hand through his hair. “Don’t ask me, bro. Iambic pentameter, supposedly, but the last line had six iambs instead of five, so whatever. Bite me, Shakespeare.”

“What’s an iamb?” Puppy asks no one in particular. “Is that like an I-statement? I am… confused and a little scared.”

“What you are is an ass,” Johnson says. “Dude, you had one fucking job. All you had to do was come up with a bunch of malapropisms for comedic relief – I had to look up what that even was, and you still didn’t do it!”

“Mala-what?” Puppy repeats. “Whatever, I’m not even a doctor. That’s Ransom you’re thinking of. And I’m telling your manager you called me an ass.”

“Dude, don’t ever use the phrase _I’m telling your manager_ ,” Nursey winces. “Even when someone reveals a pointless villainous plot. It’s just not chill.” 

Johnson sets the pitcher of coffee down on the table. “Tell the manager whatever you want. There’s no point in me even sticking around any longer; you all have the whole happily ever after thing to do, and my role’s played out. I quit.”

They watch him stride out of Jerry’s. “He’s still wearing his apron,” Lardo remarks.

“He called me an ass,” Puppy says sadly. “Did you guys hear that? He called me an ass.”

Holster looks at Ransom, who seems like he’s doing fine. Ransom looks back and smiles. Holster reaches for Ransom’s hand, Ransom links their fingers together, and they hold hands on top of the table while the rest of the group tries to figure out what exactly just happened.

  


**eight**

  


_February 14, 2015_

Holster’s known Ransom for a week and a day, and this is already the best Valentine’s Day of his life. Ransom had slept over the night before, the two of them alone in the attic, and nobody had complained about any noises, which was a good start. They’d driven a couple towns over for brunch, then stayed for a romantic walk around the center of town, enjoying the quaint storefronts on either side of the street and the winter decorations along the lamp posts. 

Eventually, Jack had texted Holster and told him he needed to make it back for team festivities. That had kind of pissed Holster off, to be honest, because he was trying to enjoy a day out with his boyfriend, which he thought the two of them deserved at this point, but whatever. Ransom likes the team, and he had seemed excited to go hang out with them.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Holster mumbles as he tries and fails to find a parking space in the lot just around the corner from the Haus. “I hate parking over by South Quad. _Fuck._ ”

“Nah, bro, just think of it as another fifteen minutes where we can do some gross PDA while we walk,” Ransom says. “It’s cool.”

Holster’s whole core lights up with warmth. “Yeah, that’s cool.”

They walk back holding hands, and Ransom keeps tripping Holster, which is only funny because he’s cute. There seems to be more foot traffic than usual, but it’s mostly other couples out for a stroll, and Holster and Ransom smile through a lot of light-hearted ribbing as classmates and acquaintances spot them holding hands.

Somehow, the sidewalk gets even more crowded as they get closer to the Haus. “Dude,” Holster says, “if they’re throwing, like, a surprise party for us, I’m not going to complain. Would you be cool with that?”

“Uh, yeah?” Ransom says. “But is that really likely? There are, like, ten different student housing units down here. Could be anything.”

Holster shakes his head. “This is going to sound egotistical – because it is – but everyone knows we throw the biggest and best parties. This many people in the middle of the day? Only for a hockey party.”

“Well,” Ransom allows, “I have heard you guys have this crazy brew over there. Toilet gin?”

“...Tub juice?”

“Sink slop?” Ransom asks innocently.

“Oh my god, I hate you. Happy Valentine’s Day.”

But when they round the corner, it turns out that the crowd is converging not on the Haus, but on La Church. “Tell me more about your epic parties?” Ransom says, prodding Holster with his elbow.

“Fuck you.”

“Only gently. Okay, for serious, what are they even doing? Everyone’s just, like, on the lawn.”

It’s true – there must be at least sixty people grouped together around the front of the lacrosse house, and more are streaming in every minute. Holster doesn’t know what to make of it, even as they get closer. It sort of looks like a market, with individual stalls, but also like a garage sale, or – is that a wooden stage? 

“What the fuck?” he wonders aloud, and Ransom can only shake his head in shared confusion.

They stop walking when they’re in front of the first stall. Booth? Whatever it is, Bitty’s on the other side of it, and he has an alarming number of pie boxes stacked on the ground around him, protected from the snow by a tarp. “Oh, hello, boys!” Bitty says. His cheeks are flushed pink from the cold, and he’s looking cozy as fuck in a knit cap with a pom-pom on top. “You made it.”

“Yeah,” Ransom says slowly. “Did we miss the memo to become entrepreneurs? What’s going on?” He points at the sign on Bitty’s booth, which reads: _Best Mini-Pies on Campus, $5_.

Bitty snorts as he laughs. “No, hon, you’re good. Didn’t Jack tell you?”

“That’s a no,” Holster says. He looks around. It looks like Jack and Shitty are presiding over a booth where autographed Zimmermann jerseys are being sold, which must have been Shitty’s idea. “He just said to come back for team stuff.” 

“That boy,” Bitty says fondly. “Well, I hope you’re surprised. We wanted to help you make up all the money you wasted – you know, the Princeton application fee, the bus tickets, the Princeton tour….”

“Aww,” Ransom says. “That’s so sweet.”

“And the Princeton sweatshirt,” Bitty finishes.

Ransom raises his eyebrows. “Really, Holtzy?”

“Um. Oops?” Okay, so he thought he and Ransom would be able to wear matching outfits. Sue him.

Bitty waves his hand to silence them. “Anyway, we want to help ease that financial burden, you know, plus maybe fund a few months’ worth of dates. You know, ‘cause we love you two.”

“Bro!” Ransom actually looks like he might cry. “That’s just… bro.”

“Yep,” Bitty beams.

Holster can see that Chowder and Farmer are selling something, but he can’t see what it is from this distance. “Come on, babe, let’s go check it out. You ready?”

“Oh my lord, you’re using pet names,” Bitty says. “I’d fine you, but that would kind of defeat the purpose of this whole thing. You’re a lucky man, Adam Birkholtz.”

“I’m luckier,” Ransom whispers, and he’s so wonderful Holster could just die on the spot.

“Not true,” is all he whispers back, and then they go admire the friendship bracelets that Chowder and Farmer are selling – they explain, a bit apologetically, that half the proceeds are actually going straight to Greenpeace, and Ransom gets really excited – then check out the caricature booth that Lardo is working. “This is surprisingly fun,” she admits. “Even though I hate it on principle.”

Camilla is selling knits, and Holster can see now that she must have been the one to make Bitty’s hat. Her booth might be the most popular of all, because she’s selling her work at a shockingly low price; there’s a bit of an awkward moment when Ransom bumps into March as she’s checking out a pair of fucking _beautiful_ plum-colored mittens. 

“Oh. Um, hi,” Ransom tries. Holster squeezes his hand for support, then immediately wonders if he’s making the situation worse by flaunting their togetherness in March’s face. “You should totally buy those, they’re awesome.”

“Thanks,” March and Camilla say at the same time. Ransom shoots Camilla an annoyed look. 

“You guys are super cute,” March offers. She doesn’t seem jealous, which is good, but Holster can’t help but step a little closer to Ransom. “I’m happy for you, Justin.” 

“Hey, I’m happy for you and your amazing new mittens,” Ransom says, attempting a joke. He immediately winces. “Shit, I’m not trying to be an asshole—“

“Oh, it’s fine,” March says lightly. “I actually have – hey! Over here!” She grins. “I’m dating someone else. That is to say, I have a girlfriend now. It happened kind of fast, so it’s understandable that you didn’t know.”

Then April squeezes past Holster and grabs March’s hand. “Hey, dudes,” she says. “I’d say we should double date sometime, but that would probably be awkward.”

“That it would,” Holster agrees. It feels like forever ago when he was so infatuated with her, but there’s still too much history between the four of them. “Nice, though. You guys must have moved even faster than us.”

“Yeah,” April shrugs. “This guy who works at Jerry’s helped set us up. Kind of random, but really nice.”

“I mean, we already knew each other, obviously,” March adds. “Volleyball. But he set us up, like, blind-date style? So that totally changed our perspective.”

“Thank God,” April says. “He said he needed a redemption arc or whatever. So that worked out pretty well.”

Camilla clears her throat. “Okay, not to ruin the catching-up thing, but could one or two of you man the table for me while I watch the auction? It’s about to start, and I’ve been waiting all day for this.”

“Sure,” March says. “We’re both taken, anyway.”

“Sweet,” Camilla says. She gets up from her chair and grabs Ransom by the arm. “Come on. You’re gonna love this.”

The wooden stage, empty until now, is suddenly seeing movement. Ola has moved center-stage, a megaphone in one hand. “Okay!” she shouts, and there’s an authority in her tone that causes every head to automatically turn her way. “Okay, we’re going to auction off some gorgeous men now. This is what you came for, right?”

People cheer. Holster thinks he can hear Shitty screaming something that sounds like “Fuck yes!”

“When you see something you like, come to the edge of the stage. Tell me your bid, and I’ll announce it. If no one outbids you, that means you will have a sexy, muscular man doing whatever you want for the rest of the day. In a PG way, of course. Unless you _really_ hit it off, in which case we waive all responsibility and can’t be sued for facilitating prostitution. Have fun!”

Ola hops down to the ground, and “Everybody (Backstreet’s Back)” starts to play as Chad struts across the stage. 

Camilla leans over. “The lax bros are selling themselves. In case you missed it.” 

“Oh my god, Holster, you shouldn’t have bought that sweatshirt,” Ransom says in wonder. “This is all your fault for spending rashly.” 

“Whatever. This is paying for at least five rounds of mini-golf.”

Camilla nudges Ransom. “Your boyfriend likes cheesy dates. Keep this one.”

Someone bids on Chad for $30, which seems a little steep in Holster’s estimation, but as the money’s going to _him_ , he has no right to judge. Quickly, he sees that each lax bro has his own song choice – Evan shakes his ass as “Gold Digger” plays, to the tune of $45; Puppy immediately begins stripping to “Hot in Herre,” which is genuinely disturbing and only brings in fifteen dollars anyway.

“Ouch,” Ransom says. “I would have paid more than that. Too bad I have you.” He still hasn’t let go of Holster’s hand.

Then Dex takes the stage, already blushing scarlet. “I don’t know if I can watch this,” Holster says, as if he could look away from whatever nightmare is about to unfold. “He’s gonna be so fucking awkward.” 

And Holster isn’t wrong – Dex never stops blushing, and he can only manage to wiggle his hips tentatively as “My Humps” blasts in the background. 

“Oh, yikes,” Camilla says. “Okay, if no one bids in the next fifteen seconds, I’m doing it. This poor child.”

So when Derek Nurse bids two thousand dollars on Dex nine seconds later, people _kind of_ lose their shit. Ola looks like she just won the lottery, and Holster can only shake his head in disbelief as Camilla and Ransom hop up and down, screaming.

It looks like Dex is not completely happy with this turn of events, but after yelling at Nursey from the stage doesn’t change anything, he jumps down to yell at him more effectively. Holster isn’t an expert on these things, but he knows that Nursey does puppy-dog eyes like nobody’s business, and he’s not surprised to see that, in less than a minute, Dex has gone from shouting at Nursey to sticking his tongue down his throat while Nursey gropes his ass.

“Two thousand dollars well spent,” Camilla remarks.

Holster rolls his eyes, then lets out an _oof_ as Ransom pulls him into a ferocious hug. “That’s so much money, dude,” Ransom breathes against his neck, and Holster can barely swallow past the lump in his throat as Ransom reaches up to the back of Holster’s head, running his fingers through the hair at the nape of Holster’s neck. 

“Oh my gosh, wow,” Chowder says from where he has suddenly manifested next to them. He offers Holster a friendship bracelet. “What are you even going to do with all that money? You could go on a date to, like, Hawaii.”

Ransom shuffles his feet nervously, never letting go of where he’s glommed onto Holster. (Holster decidedly does _not_ mind.) “Well, actually…. I was thinking that maybe I’d buy more, um, hockey equipment. I played in high school, and I think it would be better for me than lacrosse. I just did lacrosse because my friend’s brother gave me all his sticks for free, so it was easier, but it never felt right, you know? Hockey’s always been my fave.”

“Wow, can you even try out for the team as a junior?” Chowder asks.

“I don’t know, Chowder, can you even transfer to Princeton as a junior?” Holster demands. “It’s Ransom; he can do whatever he wants because he’s perfect and amazing. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s captain next year.”

“ _Bro,_ ” Ransom groans. “Be realistic. I haven’t put in the time; I’ll be lucky to warm the bench. And that’s fine. I just want to end my college career doing exactly what I want, and that’s gonna be hockey.” He grins. “And you.”

Chowder cackles. 

“Wow,” Holster says. “You’re not benchwarmer material, dude, but that’s a conversation for another day. Did you tell the rest of your team about this? Are they gonna be pissed about it? I’ll fight them, don’t worry.”

Ransom smiles. “I told Chad. Two days ago. And they’ll be fine. I really like them, even though they’re all dumbasses, but I just know hockey’s going to be better for me.”

Then Lardo comes over and hands Holster a caricature of him and Ransom holding hands and looking, he hopes, ten times goofier than they ever do in real life. “That’s you,” she says helpfully. “And please display that prominently at your wedding someday; I worked hard on it.”

“Ha, ha,” Holster deadpans. “We’ve been dating a week, Larissa.”

Camilla rolls her eyes. “Says the guy who tried to go to Princeton. And that was _before_ you’d been dating for a week.”

“Right,” Lardo says. “And wasn’t that actually when you weren’t even dating at all? Am I right in thinking that, Holster?”

Holster scowls, knowing his face is getting redder by the second. “Fuck off. But while we’re acknowledging my inability to follow normal relationship timelines – Rans, you should think about moving in at the Haus. Like, soon. I’ve definitely got space in the attic.”

“You do not,” Lardo says. “That attic is tiny and you already have all your shit scattered all over the place.”

“I’ll clean it,” Holster says. “Rans?”

Ransom actually has tears in his eyes, fuck; Holster’s heart is going to give out one of these days if Ransom keeps being so perfect. “Yeah,” he manages to get out. “I will, bro.”

“What the hell,” Camilla says. “Everyone else is having these big dramatic moments. Romance is in the air. Isn’t it?”

“Definitely,” Lardo says. “One hundred percent.”

Camilla grabs Ransom and Holster by the shoulders. “Lardo and I are dating! Isn’t that exciting?”

Immediately, Holster pulls Lardo into a celebratory noogie (someone has to, since Shitty isn’t in hearing distance), while Ransom just stares at Camilla. “Really?” he asks, apparently disbelieving. “How did I not notice that?”

“It was a _secret_ ,” Lardo says, freeing herself from Holster’s grip. “We wanted to come out via the Wellie twitter, but that asshole well never published any of our submissions.”

“They were straight up fucking with us,” Camilla says. “But our sex life is fantastic, so I think we got the last laugh.”

“Cool,” Ransom says. “I mean, shit, I’m so happy for you! And I think we can actually go on double dates together, which is bomb.”

Holster watches Lardo shake her head at Camilla’s antics even as she fails to contain her blush; sees April on March’s lap as she bullies someone into buying a knit scarf; spots where Nursey and Dex are sitting on the Haus’s porch, Nursey holding Dex’s hand and kissing his fingers.

And he feels his own skin tingling as Ransom pours back into his arms, tilting his chin back to smile up at Holster. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” Ransom says. “We’re rich.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Holster says back, and there’s nothing unique about the way their mouths meet halfway, nothing groundbreaking in Ransom’s tongue teasing at his own or in Holster’s fingers brushing across Ransom’s back, but it’s still the best kiss that’s ever happened in the whole state of Massachusetts.

  


**epilogue**

  


_March 18, 2015_

Ransom’s favorite time of day is the late morning, when he can focus and think, when the stresses of the day haven’t worn him down. He knows that Holster prefers the late afternoon to early evening, when classes are over and he can take a thirty minute Netflix-and-chill break, or when he can start pre-gaming for whatever party’s going on that night.

But now that they’re living together, Ransom’s found that they both look forward to nighttime. They never moved out the old bunkbed that’s apparently been in the attic for at least six years, but they’ve just been using the top bunk for snack storage while they sleep – and _don’t_ sleep – in the bunk below. Sometimes they do their homework as they’re tucked into each other; sometimes they spread out a board game on the floor and lie down with blankets and pillows – Ransom wins strategy games; Ransom _also_ wins luck games.

Now, Ransom’s wrapped tightly around his boyfriend, who seems dangerously close to passing out. Sometimes they fall asleep in each other’s arms after sex, but Ransom isn’t particularly tired. “Holtzy, grab me some Poptarts?”

“Ugh,” Holster mumbles, but he pushes himself off the mattress, kisses Ransom’s temple, and briefly moves away to rummage for the right box on the top bunk. “Strawberry or s’mores?”

“Whatever you want.”

Holster comes back down, strawberry Poptarts in hand. “Here you go, babe.” He offers Ransom half a package, taking the other Poptart for himself. “Hey, can you turn up the jams?”

In the little over a month they’ve been together, they’ve already exhausted the One Direction album that Ransom likes to call ‘the catalyst of our love,’ so they’ve moved onto old Taylor Swift songs. 

“We were both young when I first saw you….” Holster sings, purposely out of tune and up against Ransom’s ear. 

“Ew, no,” Ransom giggles, elbowing him away. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

Holster twines their fingers together, then their legs. “I’d like to see you try.”

Ransom can’t stop laughing, and while it might be sexy under other circumstances when Holster straddles him and pins him down, right now he’s not even close to ready for round two, and neither is Holster. Within seconds, Holster relaxes his grip on Ransom’s wrists and sinks back down, burrowing his face against Ransom’s chest. “You’re so warm,” Holster says, and the rumble of his voice echoes straight through Ransom’s bones, strong and comforting.

“You’re so _big_ ,” Ransom teases, just because he likes to, and he giggles again as Holster pinches his side. “Aw, I thought you liked that.” 

“I just like _you,_ ” Holster yawns. He’s always honest, but he becomes sweetly, touchingly honest when he’s tired like this, and Ransom’s fingers stutter where they’re tidying Holster’s messy hair. “Everything you do.”

“Me too, bro,” Ransom whispers. As he feels Holster’s breathing slow down, he looks up at the glow-in-the-dark stars that Holster helped him stick to the underside of the bunk above them. They’re bright and hopeful and _perfect_. When he and Holster had first laid them out, Holster had accidentally made two of the little stars overlap, but he’d been able to move them before they were permanently stuck in that position. Ransom believes in luck, and he feels better sleeping with his boyfriend under an artificial sky of uncrossed stars. 

Just like he does every night, because it’s tradition, Ransom wishes on the plastic stars staring down at him before falling asleep. 

It’s easy to fall straight into a good dream when his wish is snuggled up against him and starting to drool a little on his neck. For once, Ransom doesn’t question his luck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY WE'RE DONE HERE. (probably. unless i get motivated to add another epilogue/part 2 that gives little one-shots at couples who didn't get much attention. shhh who said that??) (also yes this would include puppy/evan bc there's actually no way puppy is straight; he's just kinda dumb at the moment.) This was a fun reminder that I'm incapable of writing something short and to-the-point; thanks for coming along for the ride!!
> 
> Also, I made a ~playlist~ for writing this fic, which you can find on spotify [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/monstrosit/playlist/1gx3Fdioirw4crkjz3y07k).
> 
>  
> 
> And that's all!! Thank you for reading, commenting, bookmarking, and being cool. I am BURNT OUT now and will need to return to my recovering-from-writing cave for a while. I change my tumblr a lot, so i won't link it here, but if you want to follow me, check my ao3 profile for the updated URL. PEACE AND LOVE.
> 
> **Note (added July 3) I really am writing an extra ending with Puppy/Evan, March/April, and Camilla/Lardo. REALLY. Hopefully it'll be ready before summer's over.
> 
> *AS OF SEPTEMBER 2017 YOU MAY GO FORTH & READ THE FOLLOW-UP!!! ENJOY!


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